


Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

by PoetHrotsvitha



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Budding Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert, Single Dad Jacob, Slow(ish) Burn, Vaginal Fingering, nanny reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetHrotsvitha/pseuds/PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: You didn't wake upplanningto end the day as the new nursemaid for Mr. Frye's young son. It just sort of happened, and rather abruptly at that.





	1. Abrupt Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK
> 
> After my [**first foray**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8874421/chapters/20346151), the reader-insert bug bit me again. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> This one is going to take a while (well, comparatively) to earn its rating, but it'll get there, have no fear. Alternately, if you want to keep your reading G-rated, rest assured that I will include a warning so you can skip anything too steamy. 
> 
> A big thank you to Axeman and Th3Morrigan for helping me brainstorm for this.

You felt the bed dip as Mother gently climbed out of it, doing her best to keep her movements quiet. It was still dark out, and as much as every part of you screamed to stay under the covers in the warmth, you gingerly sat up to follow her. The spot that usually held Timothy was already empty; he would have been up nearly two hours before, off to hawk papers through the streets. That left two sleeping girls in the bed, and you wanted to keep it that way. Bessie would sleep through anything, but little Rose would wake at the lightest jostle, and the last thing you needed was a cranky four-year-old on your hands right at the start of the day.

There was a slight hiss as Mother lit a candle- one would have to be enough, they were just so expensive. You dressed in silence, accepting Mother’s help to lace up the strings of your corset, bracing but not too tight. With nimble movements, you started and stoked the fire in the little stove, hands darting quickly out so as not to get burned when the coals finally took hold. It wasn’t much, but it would provide warmth and be enough to toast some bread.

Mother stopped to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before she left, little bag of oiled cloth holding her bread and cheese. “Thank you, dear. I’ll see if I can’t bring home some bones from the butcher’s tonight- we’ll make some broth, won’t that be nice?”

You gave her the brightest smile you could muster. Even as her hand swept a strand of hair out of your face, you couldn’t help but notice how scabbed and red it was, her shifts at the laundry clearly taking their toll. It wasn’t enough that it was long, backbreaking work- it had to take one of her loveliest features as well, scalding them day in and day out.

Growing up, you remembered her slender fingers moving over the pianoforte, sewing tiny stitches into handkerchiefs. But that was before the flu had moved in and settled in Father’s lungs, sapping his strength, taking every penny for medicine until it finally took him as well. That was before dismal cramped rooms and watered down milk, before stockings that had been darned so many times that they were almost more stitching than fabric, lumpy against your feet.

As she left, you leaned out of the doorway of the building, whispering so as not to disturb the other families in the adjoining rooms. “Bring home a paper as well? I want to look at the ads again.”

She sighed. “Darling, we’ve talked about this. There’s no sense in your pouring over the advertisements- I’m sure you’d make a fine maid, but someone needs to watch the others yet.”

“Bessie is almost old enough—”

“But nowhere near responsible enough.” That look meant it was the end of the discussion. “We’ll manage. It will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

It was an uncommonly clear day, the fog barely covering the streets. Rose was tottering around, swinging her doll, humming quietly to herself. You and Bessie were both leaning over some shirts, carefully sewing the torn seams, little ha’penny repairs that helped to stretch the budget of the house along.

The first sign of something wrong was a clatter in the hallway. You ignored it; as often as not, it was just a drunkard returning home, unsteady on his feet. But the thumping stopped at your own door, and when Timothy staggered in, the hand cupped to his ear was dripping with blood.

“Tim!” You leapt to your feet, shocked and reaching for him. “What on earth—”

“Help,” he muttered weakly, staggering along. He wasn’t a big lad- barely to your chin- but you still sagged when he collapsed against you, his limbs going weak.

“Bess,” you started, trying to support him to a chair. “Bess, quickly, take the sheet, tear some strips off the end. And then take Rose in the next room? Please, hurry.” As Beth went off like a shot, you turned to your brother, trying to assess the damage. From what you could see under his hand, some of his ear seemed to be missing. You couldn’t understand it; other than the occasional scrap with another paper boy, Timothy had never gotten into any trouble. “How in the world did you—”

“Big fellows in red coats,” he moaned, “God, it hurts, I’m gonna die—”

“You’re not going to die,” you snapped, accepting the long scraps of cloth that Bess came running back with. “Hold his hand, Bess.”

To his credit, Timothy didn’t make too much of a fuss as you quickly wrapped the makeshift bandages around his head, binding up the wound as best you could. “Why would men in red coats attack you?”

He was silent. When you finally secured the bandage and tipped his face up, he wouldn’t meet your gaze, glumly staring at the floor.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Timothy. Why would they attack you?”

You’d never seen him look so guilty. “I… I was doing some scouting.”

“Scouting? What fo—”

“For the Rooks.”

For a moment, you were seized by the urge to lean forward and shake some sense into him. “You joined _a gang?!_ What were you _thinking?_ You _know_ how dangerous it is, do you have any idea what Mother—”

“I just wanted to make some money. Mother works so hard and it’s never enough, and I wanted to help.”

Almost all of your anger wilted away in a moment, taking in his tiny and defeated shoulders. “Yes, but that isn’t the answer. Why would they even let you join? You’re still a child!”

His chest puffed out. “I’m eleven!”

“That’s exactly what I mean— what are they doing, putting an eleven year old in danger? Did any of them come to help you? Are they going to pay for a doctor?”

His lowered eyes said it all.

Clenching your fists and gritting your teeth, you stood, determined to put this right. “You need to keep an eye on Bess and Rose. I’m going out.”

 

* * *

 

The first pub had no answers. The second was the same. The third was able to direct you to the local haunt of some Rooks, and by the time you found a crowd wearing the distinctive green coats, your feet were starting to ache.

“Excuse me,” you started, trying to get the attention of the closed circle of men and women. “Excuse me!”

One of the young women finally looked around. “Yes, love?”

You squared your shoulders. “I need to speak to the leader of the Rooks.” It occurred to you a bit belatedly that you didn’t even have a name. It was… F-something, if you remembered correctly. Forsythe? Fergus?

“That’s… Why?” Her brow was furrowed. “Has he done something again?”

That didn’t exactly bode well. “Just please tell me where he lives?”

She shrugged and pointed in a vague direction. “Number 14 off Longside. Blue door.” She gave you a critical eye. “I wouldn’t expect a lot of sense out of him, whatever he’s done.”

“What?”

“Boss is a good man, but he’s never repentant.” With that, she turned back to her friends, and the conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, after two more stops for directions, you found the place. It was a nice neighbourhood, much more solidly middle class than you had predicted. A letter still stuck in the slot was helpfully addressed to Jacob Frye, finally giving you the right name. _Frye_ , of course— you’d heard it muttered in hushed tones around Whitechapel often enough, at least since you were a girl of twelve. He had cropped up around then- as had the Rooks- almost seven or eight years ago, and they had been a fixture ever since.

Heart beating unnaturally loudly in your ears, you steadied yourself and lifted the knocker, bringing it down against the door a few times.

There were a few seconds of silence, and then, a sound grew from inside the house. It look a few moments for you to recognize it as a panicked and shrill wailing, like someone was in pain. It got louder and louder, and you were almost about to bolt in fear and give up on this whole idea when the door swung open.

Jacob Frye stood on the threshold. It couldn’t be anyone else. He was a broad shouldered man, simply dressed in shirtsleeves and a vest with plain trousers, his hair standing up every which way. The source of the noise- a shrieking child- was cradled in his arms.

You both blinked at each other for a moment.

“Um,” he started, adjusting the boy to his hip, “this isn’t exactly a good time—”

When you switched your attention to the child and squinted, you could see the ruddy and angry cheeks underneath all the crying, his face puckered in tears. You had enough siblings to immediately recognize the signs of teething. Almost without thinking about it, you held your arms out to take the child; in a similarly automatic motion, Mr. Frye tilted forward and handed the boy over without a moment’s hesitation. Jiggling the child softly, you reached forward and gently hooked his mouth open with a finger, putting a soft pressure on his gums.

The child gasped out a few more hysterical breaths before calming with a shudder, curling against you and sniffling as you cooed a soft noise at him. Poor thing was just sore and had no other way to communicate, there was nothing fun about that.

It took a few more moments, but he finally grew quiet enough to think. When you looked up, Mr. Frye was staring at you with an open mouth. “How… I mean, what… How did you…”

“His teeth are coming in,” you said simply, “and pressure helps. If you have a cool cloth, that can help a lot as well.”

“Uh…” He shook his head like a man drunk. “Come in?”

He led you to a sitting room, simply but pleasantly furnished. When he gestured to a seat, you settled gently, shifting the boy to your lap so you could pull out your handkerchief and clean up his little damp face and soggy nose. It seemed he’d been crying for a while.

Mr. Frye stayed on his feet, shifting his balance back and forth, apparently at a bit of a loss. “So, er… How can I help you?”

You stiffened as you suddenly remembered the original reason for your visit, temporarily banished from your mind by the commotion. “You recruited my brother, who is still a child, and he’s been injured.” You were distantly aware that this man was the head of a powerful group, one that had taken hundreds of lives, and you probably ought to be more afraid— but it was hard to reconcile that with the dishevelled figure in front of you. “I’m hoping that you will take pity and assist us with funds for a doctor.”

“A child?” Mr. Frye’s tone was sharp. “How old?”

“Eleven.”

When you looked up, his eyes had darkened, and it was suddenly not so difficult to see the dangerous man that people whispered about. “We don’t recruit that young.”

“Well, you recruited him, and he’s lost half an ear for it.” You tried to keep the anger out of your voice, aware that berating him couldn’t help. “We don’t have money for his care.”

He was remarkably ready to believe you, which you hadn't expected. “Yes, of course, I’ll send someone along— and I’ll have to have a word with— where did you say you lived?” You gave him the address along with your name, and he jotted it down with a frown. “I think that’s Bartlett’s district. I’ll have a word with him, this is… Unacceptable.” The way that he said it made you think that it wouldn’t be a gentle reprimand. “We don’t work with children like that.”

The boy in your lap chose that moment to gurgle happily, gumming down on your finger again. It was impossible not to grin at his cheeky eyes; when you gave him a little tickle on his stomach, he pealed with laughter, tears finally completely dry.

Mr. Frye was staring with wide eyes again. “He likes you,” he said, tone verging on wonder.

“He’s lovely.”

“No, you don’t understand. Emmett doesn’t like _anyone_.”

You couldn’t think of a diplomatic way to ask. “Is his Mother not about?”

Mr. Frye’s shoulders tensed a bit. You had obviously hit upon a sore spot. “No.”

“Nursemaid?”

The wariness immediately shifted to total despair. “We’ve been through five in the past month. I don’t understand what the problem is— I mean, yes, I keep odd hours, and there’s the occasional, well— commotion— and I don’t know, yes, sometimes things can get a little hectic, but everyone the agency sends leaves in about a week and I’m running out of _agencies_ —” His eyes suddenly sharpened. “Say, where do _you_ work? Whatever you’re making, I’ll pay double.”

Did he always make decisions this quickly? “I— beg your pardon?”

He was getting brighter by the moment. “Yes. He likes you. You need money. I’ll still pay for a doctor, but I can promise a good wage. You come work for me, everyone wins.” He suddenly looked a lot younger, the weight on his shoulders lifted in an instant.

For a wild moment, you considered it. Someone would need to stay with your siblings, so you would have to make more than Mother so she could stay home. She was making two to three shillings a day. Timothy had been scraping out somewhere between six and ten pence a day. To replace them, and also add some of your own income, would be nearly impossible—

“Please.” Mr. Frye’s tone turned wheedling, cajoling, as if he could see your hesitation. His face was a mix between a surprisingly handsome smile that made your heart jump and a desperation that you couldn’t help but feel sorry for. “I promise, I’m not terrible to work for, just— unconventional. I’m _dying_ here. Name your price.”

Emmett had shifted up and was now clinging to your neck, one hand flat against your cheek, trying to get your attention. The boy _was_ awfully sweet. “I- I want 15 shillings 6 pence a week,” you said, mouth dry. This was madness. You didn’t even know him. You shouldn’t be considering this. He would never agree to that much, in any case. “And I want a month in advance.”

“Done,” he replied, sounding immensely relieved instead of appalled in the face of such a sum. With a new spring in his step, he walked to the nearest desk and dug out a coin purse, rifling through it. He returned to you and gently took your hand by the wrist, turning it up so he could place three heavy gold sovereigns and a half-groat into your outstretched palm. It was all you could do not to gape; it was easily more money than you’d ever physically held in your entire life. When you looked up, Mr. Frye was beaming. “Bring your things tomorrow, let’s say eight? Oh, I’ll expect you to live-in, of course. There’s a bed and a dresser in the nursery, past nursemaids have been there and it’s worked out all right. I have a cook as well. I’m not around a lot, but she’ll help you settle in.” This was all rattled off at top speed, as if it was all settled. “So, eight?”  

“Eight,” you repeated, feeling a bit faint. You had to— you had to get back, check on Timothy, process what on earth had just happened. With a heft of your hip, you stood and passed Emmett back to him, half in a daze; the boy immediately began to wail as soon as he was passed over, a pitiful sound.

Frantically jiggling his son, Mr. Frye pivoted on his feet, calling after you as hurried to the front door. “On second thought, I’d appreciate it if we could make it seven!”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Families living in one or two rooms was very common in Victorian London. Sometimes more than one family to a room, if you were poor enough. 
> 
> Laundry was a common poor woman’s occupation and it was backbreaking work. [**I found this cool blog post about it**](http://victorianoccupations.co.uk/i/i-is-for-ironer/), if you’re interested. 
> 
> By the 1860's, factory-made German pianos meant that they had made their way into the homes of the lower-middle class, so it's not unusual that the reader would remember her Mother playing one. 
> 
> [**A bit of stuff about entering into service (becoming a servant in a household).**](http://www.thecooksguide.com/articles/victorian-london.html)  
>     
> As you can see if you look to the link above, our reader is being paid almost triple the wage of an average nursemaid. It’s a frankly obscene amount of money. AND SPEAKING OF MONEY. Oh my word. So uh, 20 shillings makes a pound, and 12 pence makes a shilling. [**There are also a load of different denominational coins**](http://www.victorianweb.org/economics/currency.html). A male labourer in London in the 1860’s would make around 20 shillings a week. Most female roles were paid significantly less, so it would be intensely difficult to make a living wage.


	2. Beginning Acquaintance

“No, darling. Absolutely not.”

“But Mother—”

“Please don't fight me on this.”

Mother’s eyes were still red-rimmed as she sat at Timothy’s side, lightly stroking his hair. Mr. Frye had sent a doctor as promised, and the man had cleaned the wound carefully before leaving some rolls of starched white bandages and laudanum for the pain. He seemed fairly confident that Timothy would retain hearing in his ear, which was a relief.

As exhausted as Mother looked, you couldn't let this one go. “I promise, I can do it, and then you can stay home from my wages— and I already accepted the money.”

“We’ll take it back tomorrow,” Mother said firmly, jaw set. “I'll go with you.”

 

* * *

 

When the appointed hour arrived, the door was opened again by Mr. Frye himself. He looked much happier, though still as exhausted. “Please come through— oh, this must be your Mother, I see the resemblance.” Before Mother could say a word, he ushered you both to the sitting room again, pausing at the doorway to yell down the hall. “Mrs. Arthur, please bring some tea! And Emmett as well!”

Once seated, Mother tried to start talking. “Mr. Frye—”

He steamrolled right over her. “The nursery is upstairs, Mrs. Arthur can show you where to put your things—”

“Mr. Frye.”

“—I don't know a lot about the household, but she has it under control, I'm sure you'll get on well enough—”

“Mr. Frye!”

He finally stopped, frowning.

“My daughter will not be accepting this job.”

“But…” He looked like a child whose toy had been abruptly taken away. “Why—”

“Until my husband passed four years ago, God bless his soul, my daughter was kept in the bosom of the home. Since then, she has diligently cared for her siblings.” Mother’s voice turned flinty. “She may not be wise to the ways of the world, but I am. And when a single man offers her a position in his household for thrice the normal pay when she has no experience or references, she may not know what it means, but I do.” With a firm hand, she took the coins from yesterday out of her purse and placed them on the low table. “Mr. Frye, I came here to tell you that my daughter’s virtue is not for sale.”

There was a long pause. “Her— her what now,” Mr. Frye finally said, sounding horrified. 

“I think you know what I mean.”

"I— there's been a terrible misunderstanding—"

He was interrupted by a clatter at the doorway, followed by the entrance of the tallest woman you had ever seen. She easily towered over Mr. Frye, and her broad shoulders would surely have intimidated even the toughest bruiser with their implied strength. “Tea,” she announced, rolling a tray through after her. When she turned, you saw that she had Emmett balanced on one hip, one of his hands stuffed almost fully into his mouth. In an efficient movement, she held Emmett out to you, barely checking that you took him before she busied herself pouring cups for everyone.

“I'm Mrs. Arthur, cook and housekeeper” she said, offering a cup first to Mr. Frye before starting on another. “And let me tell you, I'm praying that you can tolerate this fool, because both me and the little Master desperately need another set of hands around here.”

You barely had a moment to register the utterly dismissive way that she spoke of her boss before accepting your own cup with a distracted "thank you".

“Now before we start, you should know— this man will ask for the most ridiculous things, and you're not to give him any of it. On my first week, he woke me in the dead of night to ask for fried haddock. As if any fishmongers would be out at a time when only thieves and whores are wandering! I told him no and went back to sleep, and we've got on quite well ever since.” She passed another cup to Mother. “Isn't that right, Mr. Frye?”

“Indeed,” he said, apparently completely at ease with this disrespect.

“So you'll come to me if you have any problems, do you understand? My room is next door to yours, I’ll expect you not to hesitate.” Tea finally distributed, she put her hands on her hips, giving you an up and down. “You look a sensible thing. Perhaps we’ll finally outnumber the nonsense in this house.”

Mr. Frye finally seemed to find his voice. “Er— she may not be joining us after all, Mrs. Arthur. Her Mother has some concerns about the respectability of the house.” His tone seemed to imply that he couldn't blame her.

Mrs. Arthur’s nostrils practically flared. “I run a tight ship, you needn't worry about that. Mr. Frye often isn't even home for days at a time. I'll keep an eye on her.”

Biting your lip, you looked towards Mother, internally crossing your fingers for luck. For her part, she was staring at Emmett, who was still determinedly chewing on his own hand. She looked like she might have been a bit swayed by this no-nonsense woman. “Please, Mother,” you said, tone low. “They need someone. You could stay with Timothy. I can _do_ this.”

After a long moment, Mother closed her eyes and let out a long breath, brow furrowed. “Mr. Frye,” she started, “if I hear of any— and I mean _any—_ impropriety around my daughter, I will be here to collect her without delay.”

Mr. Frye looked like he was trying not to appear too relieved. “Of course.”

“And I expect her pay to not depend on anything but her work with your son.”

“Naturally.”

Finally relenting, Mother turned to you with a sigh, giving Emmett’s chin a little tickle. “Very well. I'll bring your things by later today.”

 

* * *

 

It was simple enough to move in. As Mr. Frye promised, you had a small but comfortable looking bed and a dresser to yourself, tucked in the corner of the nursery. Even with all of your things stowed, you barely took up half of the drawers.

Mrs. Arthur had apparently not been exaggerating about Mr. Frye being away a lot. After that initial meeting, you didn't see him for three straight days. During that time, you quickly learned that Emmett was a fussy child— it soon became apparent, however, that the issue was how quickly he became overstimulated. For everything but the worst of tantrums, settling him in his crib with a single toy, darkening the room, and staying nearby while still giving him space seemed to help him quickly calm down.

Your duties outside of caring for Emmett proved to be fairly light. For all that she was an imposing woman, Mrs. Arthur was a friendly teacher; when Emmett was asleep, you did your best to help in the kitchen, peeling potatoes or chopping carrots as she chattered about anything that took her fancy. “You’re awfully old to be entering service for the first time,” she commented one afternoon, up to her elbows in bread flour.

Trying to cut the potatoes into even slices, you hummed in agreement. “We were fairly comfortably off until Father died. Then I was looking after my siblings.”

“Ah." Her arms flexed as she kneaded the dough, clearly the source of the defined muscles. “Consumption took my own Arthur some years ago. Thankfully my two little ones were long grown and gone, and Mr. Frye was advertising for a housekeeper.” Dusting her hands on her apron, she reached for her roller. “Your siblings must be still little, then?”

“My brother is eleven and my sisters are nine and four,” you recited, feeling a bit of a pang. You missed them more than you had expected to. The bed felt awfully cold and empty at night, even if the mattress and covers were of a nicer quality than you had enjoyed for a while. 

“That's quite the age gap between you.”

“There were two others, but one barely lived past three days. My other brother went with the same flu that took Father. He was ten.”

Mrs. Arthur clucked her tongue. “Such a pity. I've been lucky in that regard, thank the Lord.”

Finishing the potatoes, you started to line the pie dish. “Have you been here long?”

“Four years now, almost.”

“What…” You hesitated, not sure if it was right to ask, but curiosity overrode everything else. “What happened to Mr. Frye’s wife?”

“He's not married, that I know of.” She laughed at your shocked face. “Good Lord, girl, how sheltered are you? No, he just showed up one day with this tiny little babe in arms. ‘His name is Emmett,’ he says to me, ‘and he's my son. Set up a room, would you,’ easy as you please. I told him I'm already doing all the cooking and cleaning, that he'd have to expect a drop in the quality of his meals if I was supposed to watch a child as well. He didn't like that much, so that was when the nannies started— do the beef next,” she instructed, flicking her finger at the pie dish. “But nannies are generally a fussy sort, they've worked up to their position and they don't like taking instructions from a cook or helping around the house as well. And that’s before all of the commotion that happens around here, people tromping through at all hours and bleeding all over the place. Then there was that one time when the shed exploded.”

“The shed _exploded_?”

“It was just a small explosion,” she sniffed, as if that somehow excused it. “No backbone, the lot of them.”

A piercing wail started upstairs and you wiped your hands on your apron, making for the stairs. As you reached the door, though, a detail from earlier in the conversation finally sank in. “Your husband’s name was Arthur Arthur?”

She shrugged and grinned. “His folks said it was easy to remember.”

 

* * *

 

On the third day after you started your post, you were awoken in the middle of the night by series of thumping noises.

Staggering out of bed, you wrapped yourself in your robe and fumbled to light a candle, carefully placing it in its holder. A quick check on Emmett showed him still sound asleep.

Heading down the stairs, you could see that there was light coming from the study, along with the rumble of a few male voices. When you poked your head around the doorway, you saw that Mr. Frye was taking a bottle from his liquor cabinet and working the cork out with his teeth, fumbling with a glass as he poured. There seemed to be blood caked along the back of his neck, along with a stain down the side of his shirt.

There was another man in the room, spread out on the couch, suit badly rumpled. When you brought your candle into the doorframe, he raised his head, squinting at you. “Who’s this, then?” He had a broadly American accent, and with his head raised you could see that his glasses were cracked and dried blood was running from his nose to his chin.

Mr. Frye looked around while still pouring. “What? Oh— new nursemaid. Cheers,” he said directly to you, before he raised his glass and knocked the whole thing back in one go. “Shit,” he grimaced, giving his head a brisk shake. “That's strong.”

The American vaguely wiggled his hand. “That's what I need, then. Don't even bother with a glass, just give me the bottle.”

You shifted a bit awkwardly on your feet. “Shall I make up the spare room…?”

“Nah,” the American immediately said, “I’ll just sleep on the sofa. I promise not to bleed everywhere.”

Mr. Frye huffed out a breath. “This is why I keep losing staff. This kind of behaviour. I need to stop letting hooligans into my house.”

“You’re a hooligan,” the American immediately retorted. “Would you like to join us for a drink, Miss?”

“Uh,” you stuttered, taken aback. They both seemed remarkably unconcerned about being injured, and they didn’t seem to need any help. “I don't drink spirits, sorry, I believe I'll just— I'll go back to my room. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Even as you left and started back up the stairs, you heard the American snort. “ _Gentlemen._ You'll be lucky if you keep that one for two weeks, Frye.”

You couldn’t help but pause a moment to hear Mr. Frye’s response. It was just a pained sigh.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the American was nowhere to be found. You wrestled with Emmett over breakfast and then retired to the nursery, setting up some blocks for the boy before pulling out your sewing. Mr. Frye had a shocking abundance of ripped shirts.

Somewhere near noon, you heard the thump of heavy male footsteps outside your door. Jumping to your feet, you leaned into the hallway. “Mr. Frye?”

“Ah,” he stopped, turning back. He still looked a bit damp, and you had to quickly stop yourself from thinking too carefully about him in the bath. “Hello— I meant to come find you, apologize for last night. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shrugged. Other than the initial shock, you hadn’t been particularly worried, and it had been easy to fall back asleep. The old boarding house used to be much noisier. “It’s your home. Would you like to come see your son?”

He immediately looked awkward. “I, uh. Don't really know if…”

“Come on,” you beckoned him, trying to keep your smile reassuring. “He doesn't bite. Or— well, he does, but he barely has teeth, so it's quite benign.”

That earned a chuckle. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he followed you into the room, where Emmett was sitting up, trying to stack some of the blocks and not having a great deal of success. Leaning down, you cooed softly before lifting him, passing him along to Mr. Frye in a smooth movement.

Holding the boy under his armpits, Mr. Frye frowned down at Emmett’s face. “I get on well with kids,” he said quietly. “Babies, though…”

“It's just a matter of practice.”

He looked almost guilty. “The other women sort of shooed me off, so I stopped trying.”

“Well, I say you're always welcome.”

When you looked up, he was giving you a strange look, head tilted a little. “How old are you?”

“Nearing my twentieth year.” You weren't quite sure why it was relevant, but it was hardly a secret.

“Twenty…” He muttered almost to himself, looking back down at his son.

That seemed to be the end of the thought, so you sat and went back to your sewing, drawing the stitches through neatly. How _did_ he ruin so many shirts so completely? Perhaps you could ask once you knew him a little better.

When Emmett eventually started to fuss, Mr. Frye hurriedly passed him back to you, looking terrified. “Sorry, that was just always the cue for the crying to start.” You took Emmett easily, only wincing a little when he grabbed for your hair with a sharp tug. “Right, um…” Mr. Frye started, “right. Yes. I'll be going now.” But he hesitated again in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “I think I might like to make these visits a daily thing. If you wouldn’t mind? If it's practice I need, then I should practice.”

You gave him another smile. “I think that's a splendid idea.”

He nodded, and for a brief moment, he looked strangely rattled before he disappeared down the stairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laudanum was commonly prescribed for pain management until the 20th century, and it contains a measure of opium. It's also highly addictive. Not surprisingly, it's very carefully controlled and rarely used today! 
> 
> For a middle class family, having a sort of multi-role cook/housekeeper/maid wouldn't be unusual. They might live in or they might not, but Jacob definitely has the room to accommodate his staff, given that it's just him and Emmett rattling around in the house.
> 
> Girls usually entered service around 13 or 14. 
> 
> Child mortality was extremely high in this period. Death from illness was common and still terribly sad. Some interesting information about Victorian Illnesses is on [**the British Library website**](https://www.bl.uk/victorian-britain/articles/health-and-hygiene-in-the-19th-century) if you're interested (their whole section on Victorian life is superb, actually). 
> 
> It's also not uncommon that Jacob would very rarely see his child. Even Mothers who could afford Nannies often didn't see their children for more than an hour or two a day, depending on their wealth and other duties. There would be a lot of personal variation in this, of course- but in Jacob's case, being a bit out of control and suspect as a man to begin with, I think it's reasonable that many of the stuffier nannies would've made him uncomfortable whenever he attempted to visit.


	3. Cheerful Developments

True to his word, Mr. Frye began to make an effort to stop by the nursery each day. They were short visits- never longer than a half hour- but Emmett flourished under the new attention. The boy grew noticeably happier and more playful as you settled into the job, clearly pleased to have some sort of regular routine.

While this was a good thing in theory, it also meant a sharp uptick in mischievous behaviour. One of his favourite games rapidly became trying to grab food off of the spoon when you held it up to him. Once he had a handful of peas, or potatoes, or whatever was in the offing, he would fling it gleefully at you. This amused him to no end. It amused you slightly less.

On this particular morning, Emmett had successfully nabbed a handful of oatmeal and was lobbing it at your face when there was a discreet cough in the doorway of the kitchen.

As you jumped in surprise, a spatter of the oatmeal hit you square above the eye, making Emmett peal with laughter.

When you looked around and locked eyes with Mr. Frye, a glob of the food gently dripped down onto your dress with a wet sound. Was it possible for your face to catch fire from blushing too hard? It felt like it was going to.

To his credit, he wasn’t smiling, though he looked like he desperately wanted to. “Mrs. Arthur tells me I’ve been remiss in my duties.”

You tried to discreetly wipe away some of the oatmeal and only ended up smearing it further into your eyebrow. “You have?”

“Something about a proper Master of the house not letting his staff run around looking like they arrived freshly from the workhouse.”

You were almost offended. Your clothes were old, yes, but you had darned them carefully and maintained them well— of course, the fabric was fading, but that was because you went to the effort of regular laundering—

Mr. Frye was still talking blithely. “Anyway, I’ve told her to take as much money as you’ll need to get properly outfitted, so you both can go out and do that this week. Oh, and while you’re out, look into renting a bathing costume?”

“A what? Why?”

His smile was sunshine itself. “I’d like to take Emmett to the seaside this Saturday, so I’ll need you to come along. It’ll be a fun day.”

 

* * *

 

Late one morning, after taking your measurements, you and Mrs. Arthur set out towards the tram with Emmett securely tucked into his pram. Carefully climbing up and hefting the pram aboard, you each paid two pence for a ticket, Mrs. Arthur having successfully argued with the driver that Emmett didn’t need one (“He’s barely a person! He can’t even speak!”). 

You rode all the way to Bayswater, alighting in front of a building emblazoned with _Whiteley’s Department Store_. Crowds parted smoothly for Mrs. Arthur, her height seeming to put everyone a bit in awe. You smoothly followed behind, feeling a bit like a fish behind a rock breaking the current.

In through the doors, you peered around curiously at all of the different items on display. There seemed to be everything under the sun available for sale, rows upon rows of brand new things all organised into different blocks and departments. Pushing the pram past crowds of housewives and servants doing their shopping, you walked until you reached a line of dresses set up behind glass, each with different little embellishments and patterns.

Mrs. Arthur walked past them and waved an attendant over. “We need four plain black maid's dresses," she said crisply, "of sturdy fabric. Cotton, please.”

You tried to interrupt. “ _Four?_ ”

“Yes, four, he gave me money for four,” she said impatiently. “And some stockings—”

“Four is too many!”

“Don’t be absurd.” She turned her attention back to the attendant. “And some caps and aprons, if you please, white and starched.”

The attendant, obviously thrilled at the idea of such a large sale, immediately bustled away.

“Now,” Mrs. Arthur added, “that’s rather nice, isn’t it?” She was gesturing to a dress in a soft yellow fabric, with pleats along the bottom of the skirt and dark buttons in a row on the front. It was in the section with the more stylish clothing, narrow tapered waists and bell skirts of the most cutting-edge fashion. Between rows of brighter fabrics, the yellow dress was rather subdued and feminine, the colour almost reminding you of vanilla ice cream that you'd once had as a child. 

“I suppose,” you replied, trying to not let your envy colour your voice too much. Your clothes had long come from the broker's store. They were last decade’s castoffs and leftovers that you had tried to adjust as best you could, painfully aware of how they marked you out as destitute.

“Yes, very nice,” Mrs. Arthur said decidedly. She called back out to the attendant. “And that one too, please, the yellow one in the window.”

You goggled at her. “ _What?_ ”

“You need something for church, there’s no shame in picking something pretty.”

“But I can’t— the— the cost—”

Mrs. Arthur pinned you down with a look. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, girl, but the man has more money than sense. He knows it. He doesn’t live in a mansion because it’s not to his taste, but he _could_ if he wanted to, and he can afford to spend a bit on dresses without losing any sleep. Now will you stop fussing?”

Chastened, you nodded.

Her gaze softened. “I’m not trying to be sharp with you, but honestly. Just take the kindness, it doesn’t come with strings attached, I can assure you of that. You’ve already lasted longer than all but two of the other nannies, and you’ve been more industrious and diligent than both of them. So calm yourself. Mr. Frye and I both would _very_ much like you to stay, and we’re trying to reward that.”

It was a kind thing to say, though you still couldn’t understand why all of the others had left in such a hurry. Yes, there was an alarming amount of bloodstained laundry on a regular basis. And yes, you knew that Mr. Frye’s business was not… Strictly legal. And yesterday you found a gun under the kitchen table when Emmett started babbling at it. But Mrs. Arthur and Mr. Frye were kind, and the pay was excellent. Relenting, you gave Mrs. Arthur a smile. “I understand.”

“That’s the spirit.” Now that the attendant had returned, Mrs. Arthur turned and began issuing rapid-fire instructions like a general preparing for war. “Yes. That apron, not that one, a woman needs pockets. No, goodness, no. The quality of the weave on these stockings are terrible, don’t you have anything better? How about- _three shillings?_ Are you _mad?_  And does that look white to you? It looks yellow to me, and I want crisp white. Yes- yes, I have the measurements here, just pick the size that is closest but larger so we can hem them down— yes, no doubt you understand the procedure, but last time I was here they sent the wrong size, so I’m making certain—”

Distracted by all of this, it took a moment for you to realise that Emmett was becoming noticeably agitated, his eyes flickering back and forth at all of the noise and commotion of the department store. It was rather a lot for him, you knew, so many new things at once.

“Mrs. Arthur,” you started hesitantly, “I think we need to go somewhere quiet.”

“What?” She frowned at you but dropped her gaze immediately to Emmett. “Oh. I see. We’ll actually take these in delivery,” she said, turning to the attendant. “The address is…”

As she gave the details, you leaned over Emmett, trying to reassure him. Tugging the hood of the pram down as low as it would go, you pulled up his blanket, giving his toy a nudge so it was back in his arms. He calmed a little as you cooed at him, breathing evening out slowly, his face relaxing. It was all just a little bit too much, you guessed.

When you stood again, Mrs. Arthur was waiting, composed and steady. “Now,” she said, “a short break for coffee, yes? Somewhere quieter.”

She led you back out of the department store and to a small café across the road, a little place with a secluded corner table. There were small round tables placed in the room, vaguely continental in their white ceramic on the tiled floor. This all seemed a bit extravagant, but you had realised by this point that there was _really_ no point in arguing. As Mrs. Arthur ordered, you set the pram up so that it was beside you but Emmett was facing the wall, pulling his hat so that it covered his ears to try and block out most of the noise around him.

Mrs Arthur returned with the coffees, poured in delicate china cups. The first sip was terribly bitter and you puckered your mouth a bit, but it did make you feel _very_ sophisticated, so you tried to keep a straight face.

“So,” Mrs. Arthur started, “off to the seaside, eh? Don’t wear your work things, definitely go with the yellow dress. Sand shows up on black.”

That seemed sensible. “I’ve never been. I’m rather excited.”

“You should be. It’s one of the first times that Mr. Frye has taken the little Master anywhere, I think it’s a very good idea.”

Leaning down to the pram, you adjusted it a little, making sure again that Emmett couldn’t see anything but the familiar confines of fabric. Next time, you might bring a cloak or something to drape over it entirely. “Mr. Frye almost seems afraid of him.”

“I think he is, really. Man all alone. It’s a shame.” When you looked up, she was eyeing you with something of a curiously shrewd look. “Needs someone to come along and set him to rights, he does.”

You took another sip of coffee to try and cover your instinct to look embarrassed. “I’m sure it won’t be long, he’s, um.” You set the cup back down and stared at the black liquid intently. “Er. He’s quite handsome.”

“He is at that.” As you squirmed, Mrs. Arthur’s shrewd look intensified. “He just needs someone sensible, is the thing, and men always drift towards flighty things instead. Someone steady, that would do the trick.”

You had to resist the irrational urge to blurt out that you could be _very_ sensible and steady. “I’m sure.”

In a dignified movement, Mrs. Arthur straightened and her shrewd look disappeared. “Once you're done, we can go rent your bathing costume. We'll find something fitting.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, as Saturday morning rolled around, Mr. Frye bundled you and Emmett out the door. With Emmett tucked happily in his pram, a basket of Mrs. Arthur’s best picnic treats under Mr. Frye’s arm, and your rented bathing costume in your bag, it promised to be a fun day. Spirits high, you all set off towards the station in a flagged-down hackney cab.

When you reached the station and approached the train, you started to peel away from him, prepared to push through the crowds and head towards the cars near the end of the platform.

“Hang on,” he called after you, “where are you going?”

You frowned. “The third-class cars are this way.”

“Oh no, no. No. We are going first class, thank you very much, I didn’t make this money for nothing.”

“That… That wouldn’t be appropriate, Mr. Frye.”

He waved his hand at you, beckoning you along. “Nonsense. Come on, I won’t let anyone harass you for it.”

A bit nervously, you followed him as he bought a paper from one of the newsboys and led the way towards first-class. In your new yellow dress, it was true that you didn’t necessarily _look_ like a servant. But you still were still keenly aware of how you ought to be sitting with your peers in the third-class car, not with your betters in the first.

Mr. Frye opened the door of the compartment and let you go through first, the hoops of your dress catching a little bit in the doorway. You settled into the seat, much larger and softer than what you were used to, marvelling at the glass windows. This far to the front, the train probably wouldn’t even be able to belch a lot of steam into the carriage. No wonder that people preferred this.

Once the train was out of the station, rocking rhythmically onwards, Mr. Frye tapped his knee and regarded you with a cocked head. “Ever been to the seaside before?”

“No, never.” Father had liked to rest on his days off, and it hardly would have been right to go without him.

“I used to go a lot as a child,” he replied, looking thoughtful. “My Grandmother took me and my sister. I have a lot of fond memories of it, really— I was thinking of it, the other day, and how it’s one of the few nice things that I would like to pass on for my son.”

It was a lot to unpack in a sentence. He had a sister? And few nice childhood memories? Why his Grandmother and not a parent? “I’m sure Emmett will be pleased.”

“Well,” Mr. Frye admitted, “he’s a bit of a potato at the moment, I know he won’t remember anything at this stage. But no harm in starting the tradition.”

“Quite,” you agreed, rather touched by this sweet admission.

There was a rap on the glass at the door, and it slid sideways to reveal a conductor. “Tickets?”

Mr. Frye pulled out his wallet. “Two return to Broadstairs, please, one for myself and for my wife.”

His _what?_

“Right you are,” the conductor replied easily, punching a hole into the little card and accepting the money. “You both have a nice day.”

You waited until the door had slid shut and the conductor’s heavy boots had tromped a few steps away before you let your face dissolve into panic. “Your _wife?_ Mr. Frye, what—”

“I told you that I wouldn’t let them harass you,” he said easily, picking up his paper and fluffing it open. “No one would stop me from refusing to put my wife in third class. Now hush, and enjoy the ride.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger and I finally decided to chop it in two, because yikes. The good news is it means the next half is already written. ( ´▽`)b
> 
> I should probably note that servants were normally required to pay for their own clothes. But as Mrs. Arthur says, Jacob can afford it, and our reader doesn't have the spare money lying around to buy her own uniform. So if she's to be properly attired, it's sort of on him. 
> 
> [ **Horse-drawn trams.** ](http://www.ltmcollection.org/resources/index.html?IXglossary=Public%20transport%20in%20Victorian%20London%3A%20Part%20One%3A%20Overground)  
>     
> Department stores were JUST becoming A Thing in this period. It was a way for middle-class women to safely go out and shop on their own, to enjoy themselves and spend a day out. Imagine, before, that there wasn't really anywhere to eat out in public that was appropriate for a dignified middle class woman (and no bathrooms!). Necessarily, this made visits short. But department stores installed nice restaurants and cafes on their premises, making them a safe and respectable place to recharge. A booming business of cafes and coffee houses for these same respectable (but slightly poorer) shoppers soon sprung up around the outside of department stores, with enterprising businessmen seeing the opportunity in giving female shoppers a chance to spend their money. 
> 
> Along with department stores, this generation saw the rise of affordable mass-produced clothing. This meant clothes in windows, with products made to a uniform standard and a single cost, rather than individualised clothing made to order for a haggled price. If you were middle-class (which- technically, the reader isn't- but now being in service to a respectable wealthy-ish house, this lifestyle is in reach) more of your money would go to individualised little touches. Bonnets, ribbons, lace, etc. 
> 
> Which isn't to say that clothing wasn't still expensive. Clothing would make up a _significant_ part of a normal person's wealth. A broker's store, which our reader references, was basically like a pawn shop where secondhand clothing could be found, and was the option if you had little money. 
> 
> Coffee shops were partly brought to the UK in an attempt to stop people from going to the pub and DRINKING instead, like DEGENERATES. They grew in popularity pretty rapidly. Starbucks has a precedent; who knew? 
> 
> First-class carriages were at the front because soot would seep into the train, gradually moving lower and lower after leaving the smokestack, coating everything in dirt and grime (not to mention it being bad for your lungs!). The third-class carriages would get pretty filthy. It would definitely raise a few eyebrows to have a young female servant riding in first class alone with a single man. It perhaps could be justified on the grounds of your child needing to be in first class and your _child_ needing their attendant... But Jacob's solution is simpler. ;) 
> 
> Mrs. Arthur ships it.


	4. Days of Leisure

The seaside town of Broadstairs proved to be small and quaint, with barely a ten minutes’ walk from the station to the ocean. Emmett slowly woke as you strolled in the sunshine, blinking up and grinning at you as he tugged his blanket around.

Once you had arrived at the beach, you followed Jacob as he threaded his way through the other families enjoying the weather, looking for an unoccupied patch. Finding a space, Jacob took the blanket from you and fluffed it out, leaning to smooth it carefully.

You lifted Emmett from his pram and set him on the blanket. Burbling happily, he rolled towards the edge; it immediately became clear that your primary job would be to stop him from eating the dirt.

Sigh. Clever boy.

Mr. Frye took off his boots, setting them on the corners of the blankets to stop it from flapping away. "Pleasant day for this.”

You turned to smile and agree with him, and in your split-second of inattention, Emmett successfully shoved a handful of sand into his mouth. Horrified, you grabbed at him as he spat it all out, looking confused and upset about sand tasting bad. Trying to wipe his mouth, you glanced at Mr. Frye, afraid that he would be upset with your lapse.

You needn’t have worried. He started to chuckle when he caught your eye. “Serves the little idiot right. Got a bit too much of me in him, I’m afraid. Here, hand him over- you can go change into your swimming things.”

“Already?”

He shrugged. “Or I suppose we could go for a walk along the promenade first, get some ice cream or something. But there’s plenty of time, and I’m keen to get in the water.”

A bit nervously, you went to the wooden changing stalls and awkwardly clambered into your bathing costume. It had a large collar and bow at the front, which you rather fancied— even the stripe along the hem of fabric looked quite smart. The sleeves ending above your elbow were something of a novelty, as was the skirt that only slightly passed your knees. For modesty, there were a matching pair of trousers that went to your ankles underneath. It was a bit of a feat to change without disturbing your hair, carefully coiled and pinned to the top of your head.

You padded back to Mr. Frye and Emmett, a bit self-conscious, clothes bundled in your arms. You found them digging and building a little hill out of sand.

Mr. Frye looked up with a grin. “Lovely!” You couldn’t tell if he meant your timely arrival or how you looked in the costume, and your nerves failed when you tried to ask. “Why don’t you take him,” he continued, “and start wading? I’ll join you in a bit.”

Bundling Emmett in your arms, you left the blanket and picnic basket and shuffled towards the seaside, slowly stepping into the water. Emmett was watching the sky with wide eyes, pointing at the birds and babbling.

“Yes,” you agreed, “birds. Pretty birds, right, Emmett?” Each step felt strange, sloshing in the water, the sand oddly clay-like against your feet. It squished between your toes, soft and pliant.

Leaning down, you let Emmett stick his hand out and touch the water, smiling at his squawk of surprise. “Yes, that’s the ocean. _Oc-ean_. Do you like it?” He made some more noises and wiggled his fingers, splashing a little. “It’s a little bit cold, right?”

“So,” a voice said from behind you, “first impressions?” You turned and found Mr. Frye, decked out in his swimming costume, the fabric ending just above his elbows and knees. It was a bit blinding, white with green stripes, buttons lined all the way down the front.

“Um,” you said, momentarily arrested by his arms. They were awfully… Defined. Blinking rapidly, you swallowed, snapping your eyes back to his face and praying that he hadn’t noticed your staring. “It’s very nice.”

He scoffed. “Very nice, she says.” He reached out and took Emmett, tucking the boy close, nodding seriously when Emmett made some burbling noises. “I agree. She’s being boring.”

“What— he didn’t say that,” you blurted without thinking.

“Oh, I think he did.” Mr. Frye leaned his ear closer to Emmett’s face. “He also thinks the bathing costume suits you, though.”

Before you could even blush, he was wading away, moving into slightly deeper water. You tried to follow, the trousers starting to stick to your shins as they got wet, until you were in so deeply that the water had reached the hem of your skirt. The fabric got heavier and heavier as you moved, making it more difficult, each step ungainly and awkward.

At some point, Mr. Frye turned around and saw that you were falling behind. "Come on, you turtle,” he chided, “keep up!”

“I’m trying,” you called back, “you should slow down.”

“To your speed? We’d never get anywhere.”

In retaliation, you bent down and flicked them both with a spray of water. Emmett shrieked happily, letting out a stream of burbling noises as Mr. Frye laughed, kicking water back in your direction.

The faster you tried to wade after them, the faster Mr. Frye went, bobbing along with a nimbleness absolutely impossible to replicate in your dress. As he did so, he swung Emmett around, chanting “Nanny’s a turtle, Nanny’s a turtle,” until Emmett was babbling “Tuttle, tuttle, tuttle,” along with him.

Finally, out of breath, you put your hands on your knees. “All right, you scoundrels,” you yelled after them. “This turtle is going to back to the shore, and she’s going to eat all of Mrs. Arthur’s cakes _by herself_.”

Fake-reeling, Mr. Frye let out a horrified gasp. “You _wouldn’t_.”

Not quite old enough to understand the social nuances of faking, Emmett’s face fell. Reaching up, he worriedly tried to pat his father’s cheek. Unfortunately, Mr. Frye looked down just at that moment, and Emmett only succeeded in poking him right in the eye. 

It was hard to laugh when you were out of breath, but you did anyway, wheezing as Mr. Frye scandalized everyone in earshot by cursing a blue streak worthy of any sailor.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of new experiences. When Emmett began to look tired and stressed again, you explained about his need for quiet to an interested looking Mr. Frye (“Is that why he kept screaming all the time?”). After changing back into your clothes, Mr. Frye suggested a café as a quiet place (“If it worked last time, it’ll work again, right?”). Sitting tucked away in a corner once more, you made a little tent for Emmett out of Mr. Frye’s coat, occasionally peeking in to make sure that he was self-soothing; in the meantime, you enjoyed a bowl of ice cream, after a good five minutes of Mr. Frye insisting (“You’re not going to make me sit here and eat ice cream by myself, that’s just sad”).

Once Emmett was starting to fuss again, you all went for a walk on the promenade, pushing the pram along in front of you. The seagulls were swooping overhead as the wind ruffled the ribbons in your bonnet. It was an idyll that you couldn’t remember feeling for a very, very long time.

When the sun started to set, Mr. Frye carried Emmett as you made your way back to the station. The boy was completely tuckered out and asleep against Mr. Frye’s shoulder, drooling a bit against his coat. The train ride passed in a companionable silence. Your knitting needles clicked quietly as Mr. Frye rested against his seat, eyes closed. When they were both asleep, it was easy to see the resemblance between father and son. They both looked a little dopier than when they were awake. Not that you ever would have said that to Mr. Frye, of course.

One carriage ride from the station later, you were back at the house. You accepted Emmett with a smile, tucking him close. “A short bath and then bed, I think. For both of us.”

“Sensible,” Mr. Frye agreed. “You can use my tub, by the way.”

You froze. You had a little metal tub for your own bathing if you wanted, though you hadn’t used it yet. It was simpler to just wipe yourself down with soap and warm water each morning as you dressed. “I don’t— I don’t think—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get Mrs. Arthur to help, I need one too— you can have the water first, though, lady and all that.”

He was so _strident_ about everything. You found yourself sort of dumbly following him to the kitchen, setting up the small tin tub for Emmett while Mr. Frye directed Mrs. Arthur to begin boiling water. Over-exhausted and irritable, Emmett resisted every step of the way, flailing his arms and half-heartedly crying as you tried to get the dirt out of his hair.

Once he was finally clean and dry, with a new nappy and wrapped in flannel, you took him up to the nursery. Finding his favourite stuffed toy, you set him in the cradle, gently setting it rocking. The relief when he quieted and drifted off was immeasurable.

“Here you go.” When you turned, Mr. Frye was standing in the doorway and holding out a large towel. “Bring your sleep things.” You gathered your clothes and followed him, trying to decide if this would fall under Mother’s definition of ‘inappropriate’. Probably.

It was your first time seeing his bedroom; Mrs. Arthur oversaw its upkeep. It was sparse but decorated with dark wood that leant it a certain dignity, a bed and a dresser against the wall. The tub in the corner was sizeable and much nicer than yours. It was even right next to the fireplace, which had been stoked up to a roaring blaze.

“Soap,” Mr. Frye said easily, pointing to a dish balanced on the corner of the tub. “Come find me when you’re done? You can lock the door if it’d make you more comfortable, the key is in the lock.” And with that, he strode out the door, leaving you standing in silence.

Collecting yourself, you set the towel aside. You didn’t bother with the lock. You weren’t worried about Mr. Frye, and there was hardly any shame in Mrs. Arthur seeing you.

Once you were undressed and had carefully folded your clothes, mindful of how they were new and nice, you dipped your toes into the water. It was still hot. Sinking in up to your calves, you let out a happy sigh as you gradually sat, sore muscles immediately eased. Reaching for the soap, you found that it smelled quite nice and rather floral.

You had cleaned your torso and were about to move onto your legs when there was a sharp knock at the door. Nearly jumping out of your skin, you sank down until your chin touched the water. “Hello?”

“It’s me, dear,” Mrs. Arthur’s voice called out. “I’ve brought some more water.”

Oh. What had you possibly been expecting? “Come in!”

The door clicked open and Mrs. Arthur lugged a bucket in efficiently; you hummed happily as she poured it into the tub, warm water rushing against your skin. Oh, this was _divine_. You could get used to this. Which was bad, because you probably shouldn’t. Even when Father was still alive, a bath had been a quick thing in a shallow tub in front of the kitchen fire, not this luxurious loveliness.

Mrs. Arthur paused when she was by the door again to smile. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Very much,” you said, bringing the clean skin of your arm up to your nose and smelling the lavender from the soap, so different from the rough lye that you had used back at the boarding house. Mrs. Arthur chuckled as she left.

Eventually, though, mindful of the cooling water and that Mr. Frye would still need a turn, you climbed out and dried yourself in front of the fire. Once you were in your nightdress and robe, you left the room, shivering a little as damp strands of your hair stuck to your neck.

Clothes placed in your room, you went down the stairs, eventually finding Mr. Frye in his study. He was writing something studiously, fingers splattered with ink. You weren’t sure that you had ever seen him with a pen before, and it was sort of hypnotizing to watch the way that he scrawled. If you had to guess, you would’ve said that his writing was probably an illegible mess.

“Mr. Frye?” Hesitantly, you knocked the open door. “I’m finished. Thank you for the bath, that was very kind of you.”

“Of course,” he mumbled, not looking up from his work. “It was my pleasure. I’ll head up in a minute, please tell Mrs. Arthur that I’ll take the next bucket myself.” You nodded, but before you could turn to leave, he spoke again. “I had a nice day today. It was a bit like being a child again. So, thank you for that.”

“My pleasure,” you said, parroting his earlier words and giving him a shy smile. “Goodnight, Mr. Frye.”

For that, he looked up, revealing a splotch of ink against his cheek. He returned your smile with a softness that made your heart jump. “Goodnight, Turtle.”

As you made your way to the kitchen, you had to stop for a moment and take a deep breath. It wasn’t _fair_ for him to be so sweet. It wasn’t fair that he was so playful and irreverent, so vulnerable and sweet with his son, not when he was firmly off limits and so clearly a walking disaster in a million different ways.

Heart heavy, you went to find Mrs. Arthur. You couldn’t fall for him.

You just couldn’t.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. There we go. Four chapters in, let's finally get this romance started. Slow-burns for everyone. There may even be the tentative start of some PLOT in the next chapter, wa-haaaay! 
> 
> Had a question about the rented bathing costume in the last chapter. Because they were so expensive to buy and not regularly used, it was more economical to rent one. Much like renting a suit today.
> 
> [ **Trips to the seaside!**](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/victorians/seaside_01.shtml) The classic Victorian holiday. Made much more accessible by rail travel, the masses flocked to wear their [**modest bathing suits**](http://www.fashion-era.com/early_swimwear.htm#Victorian%20Swimwear) and frolic in the sand.
> 
> The promenade often included a sort of platform built out onto the sea with a pagoda on the end. Victorians had strong beliefs about air quality and "miasma", so it was thought to be healthful and therapeutic to take a walk out and breathe in the clean sea air. 
> 
> BATHING. So most people, when they bathed, would just put a little tub in front of the kitchen fire. Once you were richer, you'd have Jacob's set-up. Even if you didn't bathe, though, the likelihood is that you would still be quite clean. It was regular practice to use soap and water to scrub down your body with a wash cloth each day. The routine changing of undergarments also helped a lot, as the linen closest to your skin would absorb a lot of the grime. 
> 
> What IS different is that people's hair would have been washed a lot less. But I once read a super cool blog article by a woman who worked in an American Colonial history reenactment park- she had gone almost a decade without using soap on her hair. BUT she used a (historically accurate) fine toothed comb to comb the oil from her roots down straight through to the end of her strands every day. After a few months, her hair adjusted to the change and stopped being greasy. She swore that hairdressers always gushed over her hair because it was so thick and glossy. Frankly, I also imagine this would help to hold up some of the more elaborate styles that the Victorians enjoyed. It's hella hard to do that with freshly soaped Caucasian hair (without using a bucket of hairspray).


	5. Encroaching Worry

Four weeks in, your Sunday routine was mostly settled. Up early as always, you lit the fires in the living room and in the kitchen for Mrs. Arthur. After that, it was breakfast for Emmett, wearing your plain black dress so that his food projectiles were easier to clean. His aim seemed to steadily improve alongside your ability to dodge.

Once you had your own porridge and tea, it was back upstairs to dress you both in your Sunday best— your yellow dress of pride for you, a clean and crisp long gown for Emmett.

Mr. Frye didn’t attend church. It was a bit scandalous, but as with everything else, he was utterly unconcerned by propriety. So it was Mrs. Arthur, yourself and Emmett who would head down the sidewalk towards the chapel on the corner.

The minister was dry, but that was nothing new. You often found yourself dozing a little bit in the hard pew, Emmett’s warm and wriggly presence in your lap oddly comforting. He was usually quite well behaved. This was a bit of a surprise at first, but the regularity of the event and the general quietness of the room seemed to calm him.

After that, it was back to the house to hand Emmett off to Mrs. Arthur, and the rest of the afternoon was yours.

As always, you went directly back to Whitechapel to see your family.

The first visit had seemed obvious. You missed them fiercely, and it was nice to see them again. Timothy’s ear was healing nicely and even though the room was still as rundown as ever, there had been real fish and some oranges set on the side. By the third week, the colour in Rose’s cheeks was better than you ever remembered seeing it.

What you hadn’t expected was the creeping, gradual shame that grew with each visit. You couldn’t wear your nice dress to the old flat- it would stand out far too much. Even your subdued work dress seemed too crisp and clean.

Sitting in the room on a low stool, you accepted the tea as mother passed it to you. There would be no sugar, you reminded yourself, wondering when you had even come to expect it.

“Well then,” Mother started with a smile, “how was your week?”

“Quiet,” you said simply, taking a sip. The tea was weak. “Emmett is gradually learning some words, though I don’t always know what he’s trying to say.”

“I remember that time,” Mother said, getting misty eyed. “We’ve all been working on our reading here.” She’d taught you how to read, but there had never been time with the two youngest, and your efforts had been largely ignored.

Rose chimed in from across the room. “She’s a much better teacher, she doesn’t pinch.”

Scowling, you leaned across to try and retort with just such a pinch, but she darted away with a squeal. You caught just enough of her dress for your fingers to come away dirty.

Heart sinking, you looked at the smudge. “Mother, can’t you keep them cleaner?”

Mother looked a bit wounded. “I try, but you know what the well around here is like. We daren’t drink it, and it’s barely clean enough that you come away better than when you started.”

“We should find you all a new place,” you said, lips thinning.

“No no, we’ll be fine. We’ve managed this long, haven’t we? And this way I’ve been—” she leaned forward to whisper, “—putting some money under the mattress. In case things don’t work out.”

That stung for some reason. “You think I can’t keep at the job?”

Mother smoothed her skirts out slowly, thinking about her answer. “Has Mr. Frye been proper?”

You thought back to the seaside, to the bath and the nickname, to the way that his hand kept lingering just that little bit when he passed you something— to all the little things you weren’t sharing with Mother. “Perfectly.”

Somehow, it was like she could tell that you weren’t being perfectly honest. “Darling,” she said slowly, “you have to appreciate that women in our position are without any real security. Should he make any advances, if you rejected him— or, frankly, accepted him, and he grew tired of you— you could be out on the street with no reference within hours.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“No one thinks that a charming man will,” Mother replied, insistent and now reaching out to take your hand. “But even just from ten minutes of speaking with him, it was clear that he’s used to getting his way, and he has no wife. I still wonder if I did the right thing. Without your Father here to watch over you—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you said, tone clipped, yanking your hand away. You could feel the grit on Mother’s fingers as well, and you were suddenly sickened by this dingy room, the drunks next door, and the meagre food that would’ve once seemed like such a feast. Surely, you could do better than this for your family, for your future.

As if she could read your thoughts, Mother’s face fell. Part of you knew that you ought to comfort her, knowing everything that she had sacrificed to provide even this, but her concern was suffocating. You wanted no part of it.

The rest of the visit was stilted and awkward, and you didn’t stay for supper. When you left to take the tram back to Mr. Frye’s house, you did so with a heavy heart.

 

* * *

 

“You're back, praise God!” Mrs. Arthur's hands were a blur as you entered through the kitchen, her chopping so high-speed that little bits of carrot were flinging outwards. “I know it's your afternoon off, but Mr. Frye has invited ten guests for supper, the madman—”

You stopped short and stared. “ _Ten?_ Can we- can we even feed that many?” Emmett was in his high chair in the corner of the kitchen, you saw, contentedly chewing on his rag doll.

“We’ll have to.” She threw an apron at you. “Quickly, go to the larder, bring up an extra bag of potatoes- quickly! And then go lay out the silver!”

Mrs. Arthur proved her worth as both of you scrambled, quadrupling the usual recipes and padding it out liberally with extra potatoes and leeks. Rabbit, intended for the next two days, was thrown into the stew along with the planned beef. “He can't complain,” Mrs. Arthur snapped, “if he's going to do this with _no warning_. Now go get a clean cap and apron so you can greet people when they arrive, I'm in no state.”

One by one, the guests knocked at the door. A few arrived through the kitchen. Some were dressed sharply, with clean lines and hats that wouldn't have been out of place around Buckingham Palace. The ones who came through the back were usually in near rags, held together by patches. But as a common denominator, all of their coats were in a moss-green. Rook colours.

Mr. Frye was one of the last to arrive, tumbling through the door. If he saw Mrs. Arthur’s stink-eye, he paid it no notice.

Once everyone was seated, you ladled the stew out yourself, slowly walking around the table. Each person smiled at you, friendly enough in their manner. It was strange to see such a gathering of people obviously from different positions in life. 

One of the younger men took a deep and appreciative sniff of the stew. “We should do this more often, boss. Way nicer than meeting at the pub.”

Mr. Frye snorted. “Clean up a bit, Charlie, and I might invite you back.”

As you flitted in and out to tidy and pour more wine, eventually finishing with servings of pound cake that Mrs. Arthur had pulled together in record time, you caught bits and pieces of their conversation.

“We have to manage the edges of the boroughs—”

“Their bases are the issue, are we even sure that they have ones—”

“—consider recruiting help, but that might extend the problem—”

It didn’t make a great deal of sense, piecemeal as it was.

Once dinner was finished, you went through your evening and tried to follow the routine. Emmett had other ideas. You tried and tried to coax him to sleep, drained from your own day and desperate, but he just kept wobbling back to sitting, poking his head over the side of the cradle. “Paba?” He would say hopefully, face scrunched. “Paba?”

You should've known this would happen. Saying goodnight to Mr. Frye was part of the routine now, and he would fuss until it was complete.

But Mr. Frye was in his meeting. On nights where he wasn't home, Emmett would eventually drift off, you knew- but only after a lot of snuffling and tears. You just couldn't face it, not tonight. You were already too tired.  

You were already changed for bed, but surely these guests could cope with it. They clearly didn't give a fig about propriety. Pulling your robe over your nightgown and sweeping your long braid out of the way, you bundled Emmett up and carried him down the stairs.

As you got close, the words from the dining room became clearer. “We’ll need to press them on these areas- don't send any of the new recruits, just the bruisers, we've already lost two men-”

When you crossed the threshold, you found Mr. Frye leaning over a map of London, pointing to certain locations while everyone else watched intently. There was an immediate chorus of _awww_ from the women at the sight of Emmett. Mr. Frye himself craned around and frowned, breaking off in the middle of his speech.

You went to him directly. “He wouldn't sleep unless he said goodnight,” you said softly. Emmett reached his arms out towards Mr. Frye, beseeching.

To the delight of everyone, Emmett mashed his face against Mr. Frye’s cheek with a loud _MAH_. It was his new sound for kisses, an action that he had apparently associated with the noise rather than the actual contact of skin to skin.

That done, he reached back for you, clearly now ready to sleep. As the room chuckled, you took the boy and left, relieved that you could finally have some quiet.

 

* * *

  

It was too much to hope for, of course. You had barely tucked yourself under the covers when voices began to drift up from the garden, clearly audible through your cracked window.

Irritably, you stood to push the window shut, but paused when the words became clear. “That is a _damned_ cute baby, does anyone know who the Mother is? She around?”

You squinted down into the dark. Some of the women from the meeting were standing in a semi-circle, with a glowing light slowly being passed between them. Smoking, then. Mrs. Arthur hated the smell and threw a conniption if it happened in the house, so they had clearly been banished to do it. 

“Ah, you're new, so you wouldn't know. None of us have any idea. The Boss, he just— showed up one day and had the boy. He didn’t have a son and then he did.”

“That’s how children generally work, Mary.”

“Hush, you know what I mean.”

“That must be a new nursemaid? The last time I dropped a message here, it was a much older woman. More dour.”

“She’s new, I think.”

You strained to try and hear more.

“Did you see the way she looked at the Boss?”

There was a little flurry of giggles. “I feel for her. It’s practically a rite of passage, falling head over heels for him.”

One of the women sounded a bit concerned. “Should someone warn her?”

“What— that he’s a serial flirt?”

There was another burst of giggles. “That he leaves a trail of broken hearts as wide as the Thames— for women _and_ men?”

High above, you bit back a gasp. That was a shocking suggestion.

“For all we know,” another woman added, “he’s already had her on her back.”

You _did_ gasp this time, though no one seemed to hear you anyway. The nerve of the idea— you hadn’t even— well, maybe you had thought about it a _little_ , but that was different—

The next woman to speak sounded firm, authoritative. “It’s not our business. And the boss wouldn’t thank us if 'e knew we were gossiping.”

“He’s the worst gossip of the lot, though.”

“Sarah.”

“All right, all right, _fine_ …”

They were moving back into the house now. With an uneasy heart, you closed the window and went back to bed.

 

* * *

 

The clock in the hallway downstairs struck midnight, and you were still lying there, staring at the ceiling.

The words from the women in the garden kept swirling around in your mind.

You’d known that you had been sheltered at home, with barely any company outside of your family. Without Father as a guardian, Mother had been paranoid about male company, and your life had been largely confined to the flat. The young men at Church had kept their distance, warned off by Mother's keen eye. 

Was that why Mr. Frye seemed so alluring? Because you simply knew nothing else?

You couldn’t discount it.

Was he truly as flighty as those girls implied? He was jovial, sure, but also very careful and serious about his son. But then… Where was Emmett’s mother? Had he simply abandoned her? But then, why take the boy?

So many questions, so few answers.

Finally admitting that your mind was racing too much to drift off, you crawled out of bed. Confirming that Emmett was sleeping soundly, you pulled your robe on and crept down the hallway, intent on making a cup of cocoa.

The meeting seemed to have finished. The house was quiet, except for a light under the door of Mr. Frye’s study. You crept past it quietly, not wanting to disturb him.

Standing in the kitchen, you had mostly finished making the cocoa when there were footsteps at the door. “Ah, little turtle” Mr. Frye’s voice said, sounding tired. “It’s just you. I hope we didn’t keep you up?”

“Of course not.” You couldn’t turn around and look at him, worried that your creeping doubts would somehow show on your face. “Would you like some cocoa?”

“Why not.” There was a noise of a chair scraping as he sat at the battered table. Apparently, he had taken it as an invitation to join you.

Steeling yourself, you poured two cups and sat across from him, pushing his cup over the wood. Your candle was placed between you, giving a flickering dim light to the room. Mr. Frye never seemed to bother with candles. It was like he could see in the dark.

Perhaps it was the angle of the shadow, but he looked much more tired than usual. After a few moments, you broke the silence, unable to help yourself. “Rough night?”

“Mm.”

More silence. Even though your cocoa was hot, you tried to drink it quickly, suddenly wishing that you were back up in bed and staring at the ceiling.

“There’s a rival gang emerging,” Mr. Frye said abruptly, staring at his cup. “A group from Birmingham. They were just irritating at first, but they’re becoming more of a problem, and it means I’ll probably have to step in myself.”

What did ‘step in’ mean? You weren’t even sure if you wanted to know.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem before.” Morosely, he sunk a little lower towards the table. “You know, I only even bought this home because my sister insisted that I should have some sort of base that wasn’t a train.”

There was a mention of that sister again. “You lived on a train?”

“For a few years. But then, like I said, Evie insisted. She can, uh, be very persuasive. She said it was all fine and well for an up-and-coming young person newly arrived, but that the Rooks had to be able to find me somehow, and the train was always… Well, it was always moving,” he finished lamely. “You know. As trains do.” 

It seemed strange that you’d never seen this sister visit the house. “Is she nearby?”

“She’s in India now.”

“India!”

“Yeah, married a bloke from there. I visited her a few years back. Seems happy enough.”

The whole family clearly had little care for convention. That shouldn’t have been a surprise, in hindsight.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I bought the house and for ages I didn’t even use it. I hired Mrs. Arthur to make sure squatters stayed out and slept in the room every once in a while, when I happened to be in the neighbourhood at the end of the day. Then…” It might have been the shadows, but it looked like his gaze grew darker. “Emmett arrived.”

This was your chance. You could ask. All you had to do was open your mouth, work past the lump in your throat, address it directly—

“So we both moved in,” he continued, and the moment was lost. “I tried to be around more, but the nursemaids didn’t seem to want me here in any case, which was awkward. It was just as easy to keep working and staying on the train or in rented rooms closer to business.” Stretching his neck sideways, the bones abruptly cracked, loud in the silence. “But the last couple of weeks…”

He seemed to have completely lost the thread of his thought, staring into space. Finally, you coughed a little, trying to prompt him back. “The last couple of weeks?”

“Oh.” He snapped back to the present but still wouldn’t meet your eye. “I don’t know. I want… This business will probably keep me away for a bit, and I’m _disappointed_.” He said it as if in disbelief, and the next words were said so quietly that you almost missed them. “I want to be around here instead.”

The air in the room suddenly felt charged. You wanted to ask— _Why? Is it me? Is it just because I’m pleasant when you visit your son?_ But you didn’t. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He exhaled slowly, putting his face in his hands.

“If it’s any consolation,” you added, trying to brighten up, “we’ll still be here when you get back.”

His hands lowered enough that his eyes met yours. “Will you?”

You forced a soft laugh. “Emmett’s not exactly mobile, I don’t think he could go anywhere else if he wanted—”

“No,” he corrected. “Will _you?_ ”

Oh. The charge in the room became even thicker. Or perhaps that was just your overheated imagination. “… Yes,” you finally said. “Yes, I will.”

Had his hand been so close to yours before? When had it moved? With a low voice, he seemed to hesitate before he started, “Turtle—”

Abruptly, you stood, heart hammering loudly in your ears. “I should get back,” you said, quickly gathering up your cup and setting it in the sink. “Early start tomorrow.”

Without even waiting for a response, you fled, uncertainty rattling in your chest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday afternoon was sort of the standard holiday for live-in staff. In this case I imagine Mrs. Arthur gets Saturday and they trade off on taking care of Emmett. 
> 
> The reader's religiosity/attending church is merely intended to be a reflection of standard practice at the time. 
> 
> Boys and girls wore the same clothes until 4-5. Babies from wealthier families usually wore draping gowns, especially when you were going somewhere where you might be seen in public. 
> 
> The reader’s mother is right to be worried about her situation. If you’re thrown out on the street like that, your options are back-breaking labour or— more likely— prostitution. It's a precarious place to be, and frankly, the Mother is more likely to know this than most- given that she's already dropped from middle class to destitution thanks to loss of income. 
> 
> Women weren't reeeally supposed to smoke, technically speaking. I imagine the Rooks not giving a shit. 
> 
> Who uses a growing rail travel system? Well, everyone- criminals included. As it became easier to get across the country, London had an influx of gang activity from groups in different cities that were trying to expand. (Anyone watch Peaky Blinders? The historical gangs that the show is based around experienced their heyday in 1870-1880, even though the show is set after WWI.)
> 
> SIDE NOTE RAMBLE (this got a wee bit long, sorry): Reader-inserts are hard for flaws. After all, this is quite literally wish fulfilment. There is no dancing around “oh, is this character a self-insert”; it’s blatantly designed to let readers pretend to be someone else for a little bit. And no one wants their pretend-self to be cruel or gluttonous or vain. 
> 
> I kind of didn’t bother with flaws much in my first reader insert. That one was short, and I tended not to focus on the reader’s internal life as much. But this work is more involved, and… Well, I wanted to be a bit more three-dimensional, even if it’s my own rather clumsy attempt at it. I don’t pretend to be a brilliant writer. 
> 
> So, after a lot of thought, I settled on the reader going through a natural, if unflattering, experience: becoming ashamed of her own background and family. It’s not an attractive trait. I’m hoping it doesn’t come across as a “not-flaw”, the way that sometimes characters are clumsy but it’s adorable! Or they’re cripplingly shy but it never stops them from making friends! And so forth. 
> 
> Anyway, if people don’t object too much, I’ll probably try and develop this a bit further. I’m still sort of muddling along with what is basically an OC- I usually write canon character perspectives. Concrit is always welcome.
> 
> LASTLY I had so much fun thinking about Victorian swimsuits that I [**drew a thing about young Fryes at the seaside.**](https://thepoetdraws.tumblr.com/post/159938942725/young-fryes-at-the-seaside)


	6. Fleeting Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had quite a few questions about Jacob's age in this fic. There was a _very_ subtle reference to it in the first chapter (something about Jacob having first made his presence known in Whitehchapel 7, 8 years ago), but I certainly don't blame anyone for having missed that. So: he's in his late twenties, just to be clear.

When you awoke the next morning, you bustled Emmett downstairs a bit nervously, resisting the urge to peer around doors and check for Mr. Frye.

It was a needless concern. It quickly became apparent that he was nowhere to be found, long having left the house. Perhaps he was off ‘dealing’ with Rook business like he said he would have to do.

You tried to ignore the pang of disappointment.

The first night of Mr. Frye’s absence, Emmett fussed endlessly, eventually falling asleep in his cradle a teary and runny-nosed mess. Lips pursed, you kept the crib rocking with your foot as you sewed, listening to his snuffles even as he slept.

The second night, Emmett was less insistent but still spent a lot of time peering over the top of his crib, big eyes clearly looking for his goodnight kiss. You allowed as many sloppy “MAH” sounds against your cheek as he seemed to want, but of course, it wasn’t the same.

It was hard to say who was more disgruntled about the absence of Mr. Frye— Emmett, or you.

Once again, you tried not to think too hard about what that meant.

On the third day, a post-card arrived in the mail, not addressed to anyone and without a signature. But the scrawl was instantly recognisable, written like the sender had too many words to get out in too short a time, ink smudged in his obvious haste. 

_Will probably be two more days. Apologise to the little despot for me._

You conveyed the message to Mrs. Arthur. And then, feeling slightly guilty, you kept the postcard instead of throwing it away, tucked underneath some spare fabric in your dresser. 

That night, Emmett seemed to have simply accepted that his Father wasn’t coming, having sadly curled up on his side. You stood over him and stroked his hair as he drifted off. In that moment, you found yourself getting more and more annoyed at your wayward employer.

Whatever he was doing was no doubt important. It had to be. But was it important enough that Emmett had to suffer for it?

Sleep didn’t come easily, dissatisfaction swimming around your head.

 

* * *

 

_You were at home. Or, at the very least, the dream-version of home._

_Because where was home? The dream couldn’t decide, shifting rapidly between rooms— you were in the small and cramped boarding room at first, with Rose asleep beside you, Timothy playing in the corner, his ear still whole. But when you stood to go to the hallway, you were in Mr. Frye’s sitting room. Light was suddenly slanting through the windows, clearly late in the afternoon. Perhaps you could have some tea. When you tried to go to the kitchen, again, the scene shifted and now you were now in your childhood home, Father’s shadowy figure smoking in the corner where he always was. This all seemed perfectly natural. You were looking for something, after all— a hairpin, perhaps? Of course. You would have to look everywhere._

_Then, upstairs, Emmett started to cry._

_Blast. Maybe his teeth were bothering him again. You didn’t question why Emmett was in your old home, because dream-logic dictated that there was nothing more right in the world. It was simple, in any case; as soon as you left the kitchen, you were in the nursery, the wails loud. As you approached the crib, though, something was off. It was empty._

_But if it was empty, where was Emmett, and who was making that sound–_

Your eyes flew open and you lurched awake in your bed, heart beating quickly. In the silence of the darkness, as your eyes tried to adjust, you realised there was a tall figure standing in the doorway.

Mr. Frye? No, it was too short and slightly too round, the proportions all wrong.

_Wrong._

Something was wrong. You willed your throat to work, to scream, but it came out as a soft and strangled squeak.

“Quiet,” the male voice whispered harshly, shifting quickly on his feet so he was now looking at you. “Quiet, now.” Not a voice you knew. Oh God, so that meant—

Emmett. _Emmett_. Time seemed to slow as you threw the covers off and flung yourself out of the bed, scrambling towards the crib, trying to put yourself between the child and the intruder.

The intruder tried to reach for the boy too, but you were quicker, ending up with your back pressed against cradle as you spun to face the man. With a frustrated sound, he raised his outstretched arm, and you shuddered as you felt something cold and metal press firmly against your temple. “Move, and quietly,” he hissed, “or I’ll kill you and take the boy anyway.” The accent was northern and thick. Brummie, you realised, finally putting it together with Mr. Frye’s discussion of the new rival gang.

A retort stuck in your throat so you just shook your head over and over, gun scraping against your forehead. You couldn’t. You _couldn’t_ let Emmett be taken, he was a child, he’d done nothing wrong—

The intruder exhaled, a long hiss of sound that sounded like a light of a match. There was the _click_ of a gun cocking and your heart thumping wildly, you scrunched your eyes closed, determined not to move—

**_PWONGGG_**

Your brain couldn’t make sense of the noise. That wasn’t a gun, surely. Whatever it was, it woke Emmett, who started to wail behind you.

When you cracked an eye open, Mrs. Arthur stood in the doorway like an avenging angel. She held a long staff in her hand, with something round and solid at the end— a warming pan, you realised, which she had clearly just slammed against the back of the intruder’s head.

There was a pregnant pause before the man silently crumpled to the ground.

“You move an inch and I’ll clobber you again,” Mrs. Arthur snapped, “and I’ll let the coals loose this time.” Still holding the warming pan aloft, she tossed her neck towards you. “Get the gun, girl— and take Emmett, and go get some rope, the one we use for hanging the meat to dry— and a paper and pen. We need to send for Mr. Frye. Some of the urchins will be about even at this hour, give the message to them with a shilling.”

 

* * *

 

It took an agonisingly long time for Mr. Frye to arrive. You all waited in the sitting room, lamps lit and the silence deafening as you rocked Emmett back to sleep on your lap. The intruder had been hauled by Mrs. Arthur down the stairs, and he now lay on his side in the corner of the room. He had struggled non-stop, but between Mrs. Arthur’s tight knots and the handkerchief that she had shoved into his mouth, he didn’t have a lot of success.

Mrs. Arthur now sat with the intruder’s gun balanced on her knee, looking for all the world like she knew exactly how to use it. She was as menacing a figure as it was possible to be while still wearing a lace-ruffled sleeping cap.

At long last, there was the shuffle of shoes against the step, the creak of the front door.

Everyone tensed.

“It’s me,” Mr. Frye called out, closing the front door behind him and locking it with a click. You and Mrs. Arthur relaxed. The intruder began to struggle with even greater intensity.

When he came into the room, he was flanked by two hulking Rooks, bruisers who looked like they battered people for a living. They looked furious.

Mr. Frye, on the other hand, was frighteningly calm.

Instinctively, you clutched Emmett— now long asleep— a little tighter to your chest. When Mr. Frye was busy teasing you or tossing his son around, it was genuinely hard to imagine him leading the biggest gang in London.

It was not hard to imagine now. Even with his relaxed posture, the menace and power rolled off of him, all concentrating into a frightening intensity on the intruder.

“Right,” Mr. Frye said softly, “what happened?”

It was Mrs. Arthur who spoke up, voice sharp and crisp in the silence. “Heard a noise next door— something wasn’t sitting right, so I grabbed my warming pan and went into the hall. Saw _this_ one trying to get to the crib and holding a gun to our poor girl who was blocking his way.”

Mr. Frye’s eyes darkened, and even the Rooks beside him suddenly seemed afraid. “Right, get him up, let’s take him away. To one of the warehouses.”

The bruisers shuffled forward, but the moment that they undid the bindings around the intruder’s legs and tried to lift him, all hell broke loose. Perhaps suddenly sensing the seriousness of the situation, the intruder headbutted one of the Rooks, kicking out at the other. He then promptly lunged towards the window in a desperate bid for freedom, clearly intent on breaking the glass and fleeing into the garden.

For a moment, it looked like he might succeed.

That was before Mr. Frye intervened.

He moved so quickly that you weren’t even completely sure about what happened. All you knew was that there was a horrible crack and the sound of splitting bones, and an inhumane howl that made Emmett wake up in your arms once more, his cries piercing the room. The intruder was back on the floor, but this time, something about his face looked— _wrong_ , crushed— and Mr. Frye’s boot was on it, and there was blood seeping all over the carpet, blood everywhere, the smell of it sharp in the air.

“Let’s try this again,” Mr. Frye snarled. With a twist in your stomach, you noted that he wasn’t even breathing heavily. He shifted the weight of his foot, pressing gently, and the intruder howled again. “And keep a firm fucking grip this time.”

The bruisers— one with a bloody nose— shuffled forward and hauled the intruder up by the arms. They practically dragged him from the room, like he was a ragdoll without any bones.

Once he was gone, the room was silent save for Emmett’s slightly-calmer hiccoughing tears.

Walking over, Mr. Frye held his hand out for the gun that Mrs. Arthur still had clutched in her hand. She passed it over willingly, looking relieved. Without breaking his stride, he went to his desk and slid a drawer open, making your eyebrows fly up when he popped open a false bottom. The gun went in there, and once the drawer was shut, some of the tension seemed to finally leech out of Mr. Frye. “Mrs. Arthur,” he said, craning around, “thank you for your quick action. You saved the day.”

Mrs. Arthur made a harrumphing noise in the back of her throat. “Why did they want the young Master Frye?”

“Leverage, I expect.” There was a pause as he settled his gaze first on Emmett, wiggly and fussy, and then to you. “Mrs. Arthur, would you take Emmett up to bed, please.”

Mrs. Arthur opened her mouth— possibly to object—but seemed to think better of it after she glanced at you. She clearly saw whatever it was that was keeping Mr. Frye’s brow so furrowed. Obediently, she stood and scooped Emmett out of your arms, adjusting him on her hip and letting him settle against her bosom.

Mr. Frye slowly sat gently beside you on the couch, and you flinched when he took your hand. “Turtle,” he murmured quietly, “Turtle, look at me.”

You could feel the way your hand was shaking now that it was in his. Taking a deep breath, you slowly raised your head as Mrs. Arthur swept out of the room, leaving the two of you alone.

Mr. Frye’s thumb was slowly rubbing circles against your palm. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that you had to see that. To endure that. You were brave.”

Words still felt too difficult. Jerkily, you nodded, keeping your eyes trained on his collar, the little smudge that was there of soot or dirt. You would have to clean that, your brain supplied, grasping for something normal. It would probably need scalding water. Maybe with a bit of starch—

“I’ll make sure your next post pays just as well,” Mr. Frye was continuing. “I’ll supplement it if I have to, and there are plenty of high-ranking Rooks looking for help, it’ll be to a good home. And, actually,” he stood again, walking back to the desk, “I’ll provide three months advance for severance.”

“What?” You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Would six be better?” He looked over his shoulder. “What am I saying, of course it would, here, one moment—”

“Wait,” you stood to follow him, “what are you talking about? My next post?”

He was shuffling a few pound notes in his hand. “I can hardly ask you to stay after what just happened. This is _not_ what you signed up for.”

Panic, nearly as intense as when you had first become aware of the intruder, gripped your throat. Unthinking, you crossed the room and wrapped your fingers tightly in his sleeve. “Wait, please, did I— did I do something wrong?”

Now it was his turn to look confused. “What? Of course not.”

“Then please,” you continued, hating how plaintive you sounded. “Don’t make me go.”

He turned to face you, hands coming up to gently brace your arms. The heat of them felt like a brand through your robe and nightgown, burning straight to your skin. “Is this about the money? I promise that you’ll have as much at the next place, you’ll still be able to pay for your family.”

“It’s not about the _money!_ ” Despair shifted to anger as you willed him to understand. “It’s about _so much more_ than the money!”

He blinked down at you. “But then—”

“Don’t make me leave Emmett,” you said, fingers unconsciously shifting from his sleeve to the fabric over his chest. The shock and adrenaline of the night left you too weary to monitor your words, voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t make me leave _you_.”

You were staring intently at his throat because it was simpler than looking at his face, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. When he spoke, his tone was one of disbelief. “You want to stay? With me?”

“Yes,” you replied instantly, finally looking up and discovering that his face was a mingled mix of awe and a sort of possessiveness that made your pulse jump. “Yes, yes, _yes_ —”

He cut you off by abruptly pulling you into a crushing hug, the bridge of your nose pressed to the curve of his neck. Held there tightly, you felt yourself finally begin to relax, fingers reaching up to curl in his vest. He felt _safe_.

Jacob's breath was soft on your ear as his head sagged, so close that his stubble brushed against your skin. You weren't sure that you ever wanted to pull away. Bur when you finally drew back, you twisted your head towards him only to discover that he had mirrored the movement- looking towards you intently, almost desperately, your noses nearly brushing together.

There was barely a sigh's worth of a moment before he closed the distance, leaning forwards to press his lips to your own.

Without thinking, without doing anything but _feeling_ , you arched into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He seemed to like that; if anything, he bent you over even further, one palm sliding to the small of your back and holding you steady.

This was nothing like you’d ever experienced.

His lips parted and you followed the motion, squeaking with surprise when you felt the nudge of his tongue. That made him chuckle, and it was strange that you could somehow _feel_ his smile, making you glow right down to your toes. When you tentatively swiped with your own tongue, his chuckle slid into a groan.

And that made an entirely _different_ feeling grow somewhere _else_. You’d have to think more about that later.

When you were breathless and the skin around your lips felt rubbed raw by his stubble, he finally broke the kiss. He easily righted you back to standing straight as you panted at him, giving you a smile before he tilted his head to gently press his forehead to yours. He smelled lovely this up close, vaguely male and like the soap you had borrowed when you used his bath. You wanted to drift away in it.

His nose brushed against yours, bringing you back to the real world. That was a _kiss_. Your first. “Oh,” you whispered, vaguely aware of how breathy you sounded.

He hummed back, running a thumb along the line of your cheek. “I've wanted to do that for weeks," he mumbled, "but... I have to go." His voice took on a regretful and bitter edge. “I’ve lingered too long already, probably. I have to go make an example of that fucker _,_ and time is of the essence.”

You didn’t want to think about exactly what that entailed.

His hand slid to the back of your head and he tilted your neck forward to press another kiss to your forehead, soft and warm. He cleared his throat as he drew away, and for the first time, he sounded a little embarrassed— perhaps a touch ashamed. “I suppose this means your mother is going to demand you leave. That wasn’t, exactly, um. Proper.”

After everything that had just happened, that felt like the very least of your concerns. That, and there was the undeniable fact that the thought of misbehaving with him made your heart flutter. You tried to look as innocent as possible, fluttering your eyelashes. “Only if she finds out.”

The grin that he gave you at that was pure cheek and insubordination. And oh, it made it hard to breathe. But his face turned serious once again as he looked at you. “I’ll be sending some Rooks to watch the house from now on. That shouldn’t happen again. And I’m…” He closed his eyes. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

“I am too,” you whispered back.

He took a deep breath before he shook himself, nodding briskly as if to clear his head. Reaching for your hand, he lifted it to give the back of it a final kiss. That felt terribly fancy, almost like you were some grand lady, and you couldn’t help but giggle again.

With a final grin, he straightened his hat and coat before leaving the room, front door closing and locking moments later.

Still smiling, you touched your fingertips to your lips, studiously ignoring the patch of drying blood on the carpet.

 

* * *

 

When you finally shuffled out of the room, Mrs. Arthur was leaning around the door of the kitchen, beckoning you with frantic twists of her wrist. For a moment, you considered ignoring her, sure that your face would give away everything that had just happened.

But then, that seemed uncharitable. And she _was_ your friend.

In the kitchen, you found that she had brewed some tea. She held a cup out to you and indicated that you should sit. You settled and wrapped your fingers around the ceramic, watching the steam rise away from the cup in lazy circles.

Mrs. Arthur ducked her head gently, trying to catch your eye. “Are you all right, child?”

“I will be.” You were more stunned than anything at this point.

Once you finally stopped staring at the dark surface of the tea, you looked up and discovered that Mrs. Arthur looked oddly, incongruously cheerful, given the near-kidnapping and mauling that she had just witnessed. If anything, it was like she was trying to hide a smile, her fingers tapping rapidly against the wood. Excessively casually, like it didn’t matter, she asked, “Did I mishear, or as I was leaving the room, did Mr. Frye call you ‘Turtle’?”

Oh dear. Taking a sip of tea to cover your embarrassment, you internally hissed at the scalding heat. Too quick. “It’s a ridiculous nickname. All because I was a little slow in the water during that one trip to the seaside. It’s a teasing, horrid thing, really.”

The quirking of her lips intensified, and you got the rather distinct impression that she was laughing at you. “I really don’t think that’s what it’s about.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not actually calling you a _turtle_.”

“But he—”

She calmly interrupted you. “I don’t know about you, my dear, but where _I_ come from— and you should trust me on this one, I know what I’m talking about— turtle is short for turtle _dove_.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Turtle thing is real. As soon as I read about Turtle as a Victorian name that was a shortened version of Turtledove, I knew it had to go in the fic. 
> 
> “Brummy” just refers to someone from Birmingham. 
> 
> A warming pan (Mrs. Arthur’s weapon, if you’ll recall) was a sort of cylindrical thing that was filled with hot coals and slid under the mattress. As the name would imply, it kept the mattress warm on cold nights. A little handle pulled the pan open, which would’ve resulted in Mrs. Arthur dumping a load of hot coals on the intruder. Not fun. 
> 
> Thanks a million for your patience! All of your comments meant that now that I have a bit of time (thesis submitted, wheeee), this was the first of my own fics that I wanted to come back to. Y’all keep the flame alive. Hope this chapter was worth waiting for.


	7. Given Freely

Sunlight streamed into the room far too soon for your liking. Between replaying the kiss over and over and _over_ in your head and the frantic adrenaline rush of the break-in, sleep had seemed practically impossible. Instead, you had tossed and turned, continually sitting up to reassure yourself that Emmett was still in his crib.

Still, at the appointed hour, you suppressed your groans and rolled out of bed. It took three tries to pull your arms through the sleeves of your dress properly, but you persevered. It was the principle of the thing, after all.

Emmett was more fussy than normal, no doubt because of the interruptions to his sleep. Finally wrestled into his gown, you propped him on a hip and began the descent down the stairs.

You found Mrs. Arthur in the kitchen, sitting at the old table and knitting at a furious pace. She looked up in surprise when you entered. “I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

“He has to eat,” you said tiredly, gesturing to Emmett. He was determinedly chewing on his rattle. “And so do I.”

With an understanding nod, Mrs. Arthur busily set about preparing some food for you all as you manoeuvred Emmett into his chair. Midway through chopping up some dates, she looked over her shoulder. “We had some new arrivals in the night, by the by.”

“Mm?”

“Charlie on the back door and George on the front. You’ll see them about, I imagine. Mr. Frye sent them to watch the house.”

You accepted the bowl that she held out, testing it for temperature before you scooped up a spoon of porridge and held it up to Emmett. “And Mr. Frye?”

Despite every attempt to keep your voice as casual as anything, the look that Mrs. Arthur shot you implied that you weren’t fooling her. “Sent a message round saying he’ll be back later in the day.”

You shrugged. “I’m sure he has a lot to keep him busy,” you said, attempting to project that you didn’t care one way or another.

“Quite,” Mrs. Arthur agreed, with enough obvious amusement in her voice to make you blush. 

 

* * *

 

Mr. Frye was true to his word. Just as the sun was beginning to set, you were trying to stack some blocks with Emmett when there were heavy footsteps along the hallway. It meant just enough time for you to double check in the glass that any of Emmett’s lunchtime’s projectiles had been cleaned away properly before the doorknob turned.

He looked tired but satisfied, standing in the doorway. “Hello there.”

“Hello,” you returned, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “Here to see Emmett?”

Mr. Frye bobbed his shoulders, nodding and raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated motion. “Emmett… And other things.” He took his pocket watch out of his coat. “Isn’t it about time that he went down for his nap?”

With a smile, you picked the boy up and gently settled him in his crib, closing the curtains to allow some measure of darkness in the room.

When Mr. Frye beckoned, you followed, all the way down the stairs and into the main sitting room. He sat on the couch and comfortably gestured to the spot beside him, but floundering a little in your embarrassment, you found yourself perching on the opposite end of the space instead.

His face fell. “I’ve scared you off.”

“No, it’s not…” You scooted a little closer. “It’s just all been a surprise, that’s all.”

“A surprise? Why?”

“I…” It was an odd question. Surely that much was self-evident? There he was, a handsome and wealthy bachelor, no doubt able to have his pick of women. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to spent time with me, and I don’t…” You looked down at your lap and fiddled with the edge of your apron. “I don’t want to be one among many.”

“You’re not.” He looked surprisingly offended by the suggestion. “And if I could remind you, you’re pretty and sweet and excellent with my son, and on top of all that, you’re remarkably calm when I come home covered in blood. You know that someone mailed me an ear this morning?”

You blinked at him. “An ear? What on earth for?”

The grin crept back across Mr. Frye’s face. “See? Most people would throw a fit, but you take it in stride.”

When he put it that way, you could see that your reaction was clearly outside the boundaries of normal. You could feel your face heating up. “I— well, that is, of course, that’s terribly frightful—”

“You can’t fool me,” he murmured, shifting himself along until he was close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you wished. It was the most natural thing in the world to lift your fingers to his jaw, tracing it for a moment until you tilted your head up to meet him; now that it wasn’t rushed, the kiss seemed even sweeter than the one from the night before, soft and delicate to the touch like petals of a flower. Even when he broke away, he stayed close, your noses brushing together. “You and I, we’re one of a kind.”

 

* * *

 

If it had been uncommon for Mr. Frye to be around before, it was now uncommon for him to be anywhere else. It felt like practically every time you left the nursery with Emmett, he was there— cooing at the boy, fixing something in the house, escorting you both on trips to the park so Emmett could burble at the birds.

And when you _weren’t_ with Emmett… He had a knack for finding dark corners and kissing you senseless until you had to pull yourself away, breathless and panting, with a desperate and impossible need to ease the ache between your legs.

It seemed endlessly wonderful for the first few days, until you found yourself leaving the house on Sunday with a sense of dread about how much you would have to lie to your Mother.

 

* * *

 

When you arrived at the old flat, the door was opened by Timothy. The bandages around his ear had come off, leaving a slightly alarming but clean and healthy looking stump. When you finally looked away from it, you could see that his brow was furrowed, his little face puckered in worry.

As you stepped in and took off your shawl, you frowned at him. “Is everything all right?”

“Rose,” Timothy muttered. “Rose isn’t well.”

“Not well how?” You looked past him to find Mother perched on the side of the bed, hunched over a small figure. As you got closer, you could see that Rose was pale and her hair was damp with sweat. Periodically, she would twitch in her sleep, face creasing in pain. “Mother?” you asked softly. “How long has she been like this?”

“Near four days now,” Mother said, barely more than a whisper. Bessie was sitting at the end of the bed, you could see now, knees to her chest as she listlessly played with a doll, obviously deriving no pleasure from it.

“Why didn’t you call for me?”

“What could you do?”

“You can’t…” You gathered your courage. You were the breadwinner now. “You all can’t stay here. You’ve got to go somewhere cleaner, healthier, with better air. Where’s the money I sent you?”

Mother gently shook her head. “Physicians are expensive, sweetheart.”

“But— but there was so much!”

“We’ve tried everything,” Mother hushed, her pain clear. “I had to try everything. I’ve already lost one child— and your father. I didn’t want to lose another.”

As she turned a little, the light from the window illuminated the shadows under her eyes and the pale draw of her skin. She looked exhausted. Your concern momentarily switched to being for her. “Mother, when did you last sleep?”

She merely wordlessly shook her head. Knowing your mother, you suspected that it could have been days. 

“You should sleep,” you said firmly, leaning over and taking the cloth from her hand. “Let me do this for a little bit.” If the money was gone, it was gone, and there was little you could do at the moment about the situation overall. But you could let Mother sleep. 

With a weary nod, she rose and walked to the other side of the bed, nestling next to her daughter and closing her eyes. 

As you took over and began to sooth Rose, stroking her hair, you felt a stab of guilt for being a little bit relieved that this meant you wouldn’t have to endure any questions about Mr. Frye.

 

* * *

 

No matter how much you wanted to stay, you had other responsibilities now. When the sun had completely set and the lamps along the street were long lit, you left the old flat and took the tram back to the Frye home with a heavy heart. As you stepped into the front hallway, Mr. Frye’s voice rang out. “Turtle? Is that you?”

“It is,” you called, gently removing your bonnet to hang it up next to the door.

“I’m in the library,” he shouted back.

Clearly it was meant as an invitation. When you went through, you found that he was mulling over a map; at the sight of you, he beamed and drew his chair back, patting his knee.

You raised your eyebrows doubtfully.

His grin got wider. “What?”

“I have rather a lot of skirt.”

“I can handle it,” he promised.

Finally breaking into your own small smile, you walked over and awkwardly settled into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. When he pulled you in for a kiss, it was lovely and sweet, but also rather familiar and gentle— somehow like getting into bed at the end of a long day.

He broke away and nestled his forehead against the crook of your neck, sighing happily. “How was your family?”

Not sure of what to say, you sat in silence, heart sinking again.

Eventually, he drew back a little to look at your face. “Turtle?”

“My sister— Rose, the youngest— is sick,” you admitted. “Mother’s spent all the earnings I’ve made on tinctures and physician’s visits for her, but she’s not getting any better.” You swallowed. “She’s younger than when my brother died, and not as strong as he was, either.”  

Mr. Frye’s frown deepened. “Were they good physicians?”

“I don’t know— in any case, I suspect it has something to do with the air in that flat.” Bitterness clouded your tone. “I wanted them to leave and go somewhere else, but Mother insisted on saving the money I was making instead of moving them, and now Rose is sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Frye murmured, tucking a strand of your hair that had fallen loose from your braids behind your ear. “I’ll see if I can do something to help. I remember nearly being the cause of someone dying from bad medicine once, no one should have to experience that.” 

“You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheekbone with his thumb, palm cupping your cheek. “Now, you look exhausted. One more kiss, and then you should get some sleep.”

 

* * *

 

The next day passed in a haze of vague worry, leaving you distracted as you tried to go about your daily chores. It was very nearly dinner when there was a loud banging at the front door; you distantly heard one of the Rooks watching the house answer it, followed by Mrs. Arthur’s concerned voice and a series of hurried steps up the stairs.

To your complete shock, it was Mother who opened the door to the nursery, clearly looking for you. Your heart clenched. "Is Rose—"

She interrupted you with a wave of her impatient hand, somehow conveying that this visit wasn't about your sister's illness. “Darling, you— it— what have you done?” Her eyes were wide and filled with panic.

“What?” You stood, reaching to pick up Emmett as you did so, still unsettled and not understanding. 

Mrs. Arthur appeared behind Mother’s shoulder, her eyes flicking back and forth between you and your Mother. “Er,” she started, “perhaps I’ll take the young Master—”

“Men at our flat!” Mother said, “Came in without warning, took all our things, the children—”

You gaped at her, horrified. “ _What?_ ”

“— and then they took all of us to a new flat— in _Pimlico_ _!_ One that has two bedrooms! A real stove! And they tell me that there won’t be any need for rent and that they’re sending a doctor for Rose, that Mr. Frye has _arranged_ everything—”

The sudden turn of events left you more confused than ever. “But— that— is that not a good thing?”

Everything became very still as your mother suddenly stopped speaking, her face paper-white. In the pause, Mrs. Arthur stepped forward and took Emmett from your unresisting hands, nimbly disappearing into the hallway and closing the door with far more subtlety than should’ve been possible for a woman of her stature. Distantly, you were grateful for the privacy.

Your Mother stepped closer still, her voice at a low whisper. “Darling, I need you to be honest with me. Do you still have your virtue?”

“My—,” you sputtered at her. “Yes!”

“I promise not to be angry, but you have to tell me— could you be pregnant?”

“Could I be  _what?_ Why would you _say_ such a thing?”

Her arms came up to grip your elbows. “Men do not do such things out of the _kindness of their hearts_ , dear, I’m not so foolish as to think all of this doesn’t come with a price I can’t see. Perhaps he simply means it as a favour, but even so, who does such a favour for a mere nursemaid? And one who has only been with the family for such a short time?”

You opened your mouth to lie, to deny it, but something about her fervency made you hesitate.

The hesitation was enough. She lurched forward and folded you into a crushing hug. “Oh, my dear. My dear. It’s all right. It will be all right, we can fix this— are you certain you aren’t pregnant?”

Offended, you wriggled out of her arms and stepped away. “I’m still a maid!”

“Thank God,” she breathed reverently, putting a hand to her mouth. 

You fisted your dress in your fingers, trying not to lash out. “He, well, if you _must_ know, he's been a proper gentleman.”

Mother's mind was clearly working rapidly, jumping from inference to inference as she drew the dots together. “Have you been chaperoned? Has he promised marriage?”

“Yes, we’ve been chaperoned,” you insisted indignantly, silently adding _even if Mrs. Arthur was in the next room_. “And as for marriage, he… It…”

Mother closed her eyes. “No proposal.”

“It would be too soon anyway, I couldn’t possibly—”

“You have to leave here.” Her voice was rising in panic again. “I can’t risk your ruin, and now that you have a financial obligation beyond your earnings, it can’t be borne. If he were to— if he were to ask something, how on earth should you say no—”

“Mother,” you said desperately, trying to interrupt the flow of her words. “Mother. Mother!” When she finally stopped, you held your hands up in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving. It’s a good income, far better than anything else we could find. You’re exhausted and you’re not thinking clearly, everything is going to be all right, and the new flat is— I’ll insist that we’ll pay rent. He doesn't have any power over me that way, I _assure_ you.” It even felt like a lie as the words left your mouth, but surely no ill could come of it? 

“We couldn’t possibly—”

“Mother, you’ve cared for us your whole life, given yourself over to it until you practically wore yourself out.” The bags under her eyes were clear indication of that, and looking at her now, you could see that she seemed slimmer than when you had seen her last, clearly still trying to save every penny in the belief that your position was too good to be true. “You gave us everything, but someday, children are meant to care for their parents. Let me take care of this. I can _do_ this.”

She blinked at you rapidly, but to your great relief, she didn’t cry. Instead she seemed to somehow fold in on herself, becoming even smaller. “My dear, I couldn’t… It…” she murmured, scrunching her eyes shut. “So much could go wrong. We’re at a disadvantage, in this world, and I know that you’re young full of hope, but it’s not enough. We can’t eat hope.” She lifted her hands to her face, hunching over even further. “There... There is nothing that I could say that would compel you to leave here, is there?”

“No,” you said quietly. “No, there isn’t. And…” You swallowed heavily. “He’s a good man, Mother.”

Wordlessly, she held out her arms and you stepped into her hug. It felt as though it was meant to convey more than she could put into words, and somehow, you got the sense that you didn’t exactly understand everything she was trying to say. “No matter what happens,” she murmured against your hair, “you can always come home, do you understand? If you ever feel unsafe or unhappy, you must leave here straightaway. Don’t feel beholden because of the flat, or because of Rose. We will find a way. You have to promise me. Keep your mind about you, and don’t give anything that cannot be taken back.”

It seemed pointless to distress her further, so you just nodded wordlessly against her shoulder.

You stood that way for some minutes, stroking your mother's back, trying to reassure her. When she eventually drew away, it was with a defeated tilt to her head. "I must get back to Rose," she said quietly, "but I had to know in person."

As you went downstairs, you called for Charlie to accompany her and ensure that she made it safely back to the flat. Even as they left, you watched them go, thoughts running in circles in your head. Surely, you thought, this was a good thing? Rose would get treatment. Your family would live in a better place. They would have better prospects, better health, better company. Surely this couldn’t be wrong?

Standing on the front doorstep, knuckles pressed to your lips, you tried to wave away the worrying knot of anxiety as you watched both of them disappear into the mist of the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reader is consistently worried about the air quality of where her family lives because of miasma theory, which was widely believed at the time and basically said that all manner of bad things were transmitted by air. And that "stale" air was bad for you. Which led to a lot of windows being open even in the winter, which... Sounds unpleasant. 
> 
> I picked Pimlico as a moderately good neihgbourhood for the Reader's family to be moved into based on The World of London, by John Murray (in Blackwoods Magazine July 1841). _"Low genteel neighbourhoods we need hardly say are drugs in the market. The New Road, Paddington, Pimlico, Bayswater, Clapham, Upper Clapton, may serve as illustrations. Boarding houses abound, furnished lodgings are the staple commodity, and omnibuses pass the doors for your accommodation every five minutes. Hereabouts, if you believe the advertisements, there are always to be found, for next to nothing, "really comfortable homes", "liberal tables" and houses "replete with every convenience"."_
> 
> OKAY. Next chapter, things start hotting up- both earning the rating wise, hem hem, and plot wise. -rubs hands together- Here we go...


	8. Harboured Desires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to:  
> 1) All of the people who commented even during the ages long hiatus, because I honestly probably would've dropped this fic if there had been total radio silence, and  
> 2) The wonderful, wonderful people who emphasised that they'd be happy with an update no matter when it came. There's something tremendously stressful about a dry spell in that you become convinced that people are mad at you, and that makes it hard to write anything without being stressed, which perversely makes it harder to end the hiatus. So! Your unconditional support made this chapter happen <3 <3 <3

Time slipped through your fingers like sand through an hourglass, gentle but persistent. Rose recovered with the help of superior doctors and better air, and your siblings thrived in the new flat. Even Mother’s cheeks looked rosier from good food and proper rest. She watched you nervously with every visit, eyes flickering to your waistline as if to watch for signs of swelling, but neither of you ever spoke of Mr. Frye. It seemed easier to avoid the issue entirely.

Emmett flourished. His uncertain tempers and tantrums became less frequent, only brought about when there was an unexpected change in schedule or an overwhelming stress in his environment. “Papa” tripped from his tongue easily and happily. He knew to expect Mr. Frye every single night; when he woke each morning, he reached for you with wiggling arms over the side of the crib, his beaming smile like sunshine. He still fussed and cried when upset— much as any child would— but he would cling to the front of your chest and bury his wet face in your neck, snuffling into quiet as you rocked him gently back and forth. The weight of him was comforting in your arms.

Mr. Frye orbited you like a vigilant moon. He made himself known even when he wasn’t physically present, with small gifts that he left for you to find and a constant Rook guard set to watch over you when he couldn’t. He was diligent with his son and more attentive than you could ever have imagined a man being with a child. Over time, he even grew confident enough to be alone with Emmett for short stretches, waving you off when Mrs. Arthur needed you for some small chore. You would come back to find them stretched out on the lounge, Mr. Frye snoring lightly and Emmett curled safely on his chest.

With each passing week, you grew more certain that your mother’s worries had been misguided. Even in the most heated kisses, Mr. Frye’s hands remained respectfully above your waist— and, well, if they lingered a little bit over your bosom when you were only in your nightgown, you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed the tracing touches. They made your body feel so _hot_ , setting you squirming and panting against his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. Some whispered counsel from Mrs. Arthur had explained the rather prominent lump that you could feel against your hip on those nights, but he never pushed the issue.

Mrs. Arthur, for her part, watched over it all with a knowing smile. Each night she quietly knitted tiny booties and hats that she stockpiled in secret, convinced that the family would be growing before too long. 

 

* * *

 

The arrival of autumn meant that scarves and coats were brought down from the attic, Emmett’s little head tucked securely in his hat whenever you left the house. He would toddle around in the back garden as you and Mrs. Arthur harvested the short rows of celery and leeks, playing with the onions and parsnips until they were confiscated by tutting adult hands. Nothing made him happier than being held high to tug on the apples weighing down the lone apple tree. Especially because Mrs. Arthur always followed that with flaky hot apple pastries that Emmett inevitably left all over his face and front.

Sometimes trips were made a bit further afield. With Emmett tucked in the pram, you and Mr. Frye would proceed to the nearest park, where a blanket and a picnic basket would be produced. Lounging on the blanket, you would watch as Emmett scarpered around, seemingly endless in his energy. Mr. Frye would whisper his muttered commentary on passers-by into your ear, grinning wickedly as you laughed and sputtered at his impertinence in turn.

It was on one such afternoon that Emmett dove headfirst for the leaves that someone had raked into piles, promptly scattering them in his wake.

“Tuttle!” Emmett squealed, throwing leaves in the air. “Tuttle! _Tuttle!_ ”

“Yes, yes, I see,” you waved back. “Leaves, yes, very nice. Very pretty.”

“Tuttle, leeeeeafs,” Emmett parroted enthusiastically, interspersed with incoherent babbling sounds that could have been words but weren’t. “Leeeafs, Tuttle, leafs leafs _Papa,_ Papa! Tuttle, leafs–”

“I do wish that you hadn’t taught him that nickname,” you muttered to Mr. Frye, flushing a little when a nearby couple gave you a strange look.

“I like it.” Mr. Frye’s grin was utterly unrepentant.

“Yes, I’m aware, but I still wish it could be replaced.”

He shrugged. “We could replace it with ‘Mama’?”

Open-mouthed, you swivelled your neck to stare at him with wide eyes. But before you could say anything at all, Mr. Frye’s eyebrows perked up, his head twisting around to stare at a man carrying a tray and calling out his wares. “Hang on, is that bloke selling Chelsea buns?” He scrambled to his feet. “I could use with one of those, be right back…”

“I hope you’re intending to share,” you managed to yell after him, mind still reeling. _Mama?_

 

* * *

 

Autumn nights meant that you would retire to the sitting room once was Emmett was asleep. A fire would be lit there, in anticipation for Mr. Frye’s return, and you could settle comfortably on the lounge.

No need to dwell too carefully on how you changed into your nightgown every evening before going down, aware that even with a robe, it was… Quite a bit  _thinner_ than your normal daily layers.

The light of the fire was enough to do your sewing. Drawing the needle in precise lines, you would mend the pile of clothes that inevitably wound up in your basket. Between Mr. Frye’s ripped trousers and Emmett’s fascination with fraying his hems, the two of them kept your needle busy.

He was late tonight. This wasn’t particularly noteworthy, as he had been present to wish Emmett goodnight after supper. All the same, you kept glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece, chewing on your lip as the hour grew later.

Near almost midnight, the front door clicked open. You tensed until Mr. Frye’s head poked around the corner, clearly investigating the source of the light. “Turtle,” he said, sounding tired himself. “I assumed you’d have gone up already.”

“I wanted to wait,” you reassured him, setting aside your sewing and listening to the shuffle of him climbing out of his coat and boots.

“You probably should go up,” he continued, walking to the room with a tired gait.

You were about to be hurt by the suggestion when you saw the blood. It was all along his shirt and the side of his trousers, spattered lightly on one side of his face. It was dry, nearly black in the dim light, and his eyes looked dark as night whenever the fire flickered.

“It’s not mine,” he said lightly, stepping to the side table where a jug of water and a small basin sat. Picking up the linen, he began to scrub his hands and face clean, staining the water and the cloth red. “It’s just been a very long night.”

You found your voice. “Is everyone… All right?”

Mr. Frye’s voice was grim. “Everyone on my side is.”

Standing slowly, you went to him, taking the cloth from his hands. He bowed his head as you cleaned along his jawline and his neck, dabbing lightly at the places that he couldn’t see. The water was cold, but his skin felt hot to the touch. “Would you like to be left alone?”

His eyes lifted until they met yours, and the focus of them made a shiver dart crawl up your spine. “It’s not that as much as…” His gaze dropped to your lips. “This sort of thing tends to get my blood up.”

You dipped the cloth back in the water and started working on the other side of his face, mostly so that the movement would hide the tremor of your hands. “Oh?”

His voice was so low that it was barely a rumble. The tone was that of an unmistakable warning. “I wouldn’t want to do anything untoward.”

Something about the way he said it made you certain that his untowardness would be a _tremendous_ amount of fun.

Hesitantly, slowly, you closed the distance until your lips touched, feather-light and ticklish. To your shock, he immediately grabbed your waist and hefted you into his arms with groaning enthusiasm, hands sliding down to wrap your legs around his waist. Bodily conveying you both back to the lounge, you wound up straddling him as he tugged your braid apart, leaving your hair tumbling down your back.

You could only hang on for dear life. You dug your fingers into his shoulders as his kisses moved from your mouth to your cheek, along your jawline, to your neck and your shoulder, hot and wet and hungry. Once your hair was mussed to his satisfaction, his hands moved to your calves, sliding up and under your nightgown with a brazenness that left you blushing even as you whimpered. “Sweet girl,” he was mumbling over and over, so quiet that it was almost as if he didn’t want you to hear. “Sweet girl, lovely girl, my beautiful sweet girl—”

His hand had reached the edges of your drawers now, just below your knees. They continued to travel upwards, now over the fabric. You hiccoughed in surprise when he fully cupped you between your legs, his big hand somehow not nearly as hot as the roaring heat of your own body.

There was a moment where you held yourself perfectly tense as you blinked at him. You could tell that your mouth was hanging open a little stupidly when one finger very, very slowly traced the gap in the fabric of your drawers, just barely brushing against your skin. The promise of it was enough to make it hard to breathe.

Mr. Frye wouldn’t look away from your eyes, intent enough to make your head spin. “May I?”

His voice in the silence brought the immediacy of it home, your embarrassment rushing back in full force. You didn’t want him to stop, but— but was it appropriate to ask such a thing? Could a lady ask such a thing?

Could you live with yourself if you asked him to stop?

If you were honest with yourself, how long had you been hoping for this? 

Flopping forwards, you tucked your head against his shoulder and nodded frantically. It was easier to agree if you didn’t have to see.

The press of his finger was infinitely strange, the sensation curious but welcome as he pressed inside you. You were immediately wracked by the need for movement, rocking your hips back and forth as he started to move gently, stroking in and out with an unrelenting pressure that made your thighs shake. His voice was a choked sound against the side of your head, where he kept pressing kisses to your hair; “tight,” he whispered, “so tight, _God_.”

You would’ve scolded him for blasphemy if there was any chance at all of being able to think straight. All thoughts fled when his thumb began to trace little circles, the movements timed in such a way as to take that heat and turn it into a blazing roar.

The impending _something_ would’ve made you afraid if you didn’t feel so safe and confident there in his arms, certain that he would never hurt you. It meant that you could freely rock against his hand, chasing the sensation, trying to push his fingers deeper. The smell of— well, of _Mr. Frye_ , leather and gunpowder and lavender soap all swirled together, was enough to leave you feeling drunk and insensible with want. The brush of his stubble was against your nose as you leaned into his skin. The ends of his hair tickled your cheek, each sensation feeling heightened as everything in your world narrowed to a point between your legs. It only grew more divine when his other hand moved to more familiar territory, stroking at the stiff peaks of your breasts through the fabric, gentle touches to contrast with the now-fierce thrusting of his hand.

It was very nearly too much. So close to too much. But you would never stop him, not now, not when— when _whatever_ it was loomed so near—

The precipice was divine, all of the muscles tightening in your legs and stomach as the heat built to an unbearable pitch.

You barely recognised the sound that slipped from your throat when the sensation finally flipped, at last, like a crashing log in a fire that flared abruptly in its final sparks of life. It was a good thing that the noise was muffled against his shoulder. You surely would’ve woken the whole house with your wail otherwise, but instead the sound was mostly lost against his skin, swallowed by his comforting presence. Each rocking spasm was eased by his stroking palm and soothing murmur, his scissoring fingers cleverly working you through until it died down.

“That…” You mumbled dimly, looking at him, spitting hair out of your mouth from where it had dragged across your face. The slick sound of him withdrawing his fingers from you was wincingly audible. “I… Wow.”   

You expected him to look smug or pleased with himself, as he normally was in the face of compliments. Instead he looked nearly pained. With racing hands, he was undoing his belt, flicking open the buttons of his trousers and the shorts beneath. You nearly baulked— a finger was one thing, but you couldn’t risk more— before it became clear that he wasn’t asking for that. Instead, he took your hand, pulling it towards his groin with a gentle insistence.

“Please,” he said, “sweet girl, please,” and with such raw desperation in his voice, how could you say no?

Your first touch was hesitant, but you grew in confidence as you mapped the geometry of his body. It was hot to the touch and surprisingly smooth, but the best part was the way that he groaned when you stroked your fingers from base to tip. Feeling bolder, you wrapped your hand around it, fingers just overlapping, letting him hold your wrist and guide the pace and motion. Every new rumbled moan from him was enough to make more heat grow in your stomach, your thighs oddly sticky as you rocked against his thighs. His own release seemed to build faster than yours did, his grunts coming faster and faster with each of your strokes, his hips jerking upward with each movement.

With a last gasp, he gripped a handful of your hair tightly, holding you in place. In moments, something was spurting onto your fingers and against his stomach and shirt, sticky and warm in its substance. Part of you was frustrated at how his shirttails and the waistband of his trousers meant that you couldn’t _see_ properly, but the tactile sensation of it was fascinating enough.

With a final twitch, Mr. Frye slumped back against the back of the lounge, panting like he had just finished a ten-mile run. There was a look of blissful sleepiness on his face, barely illuminated by the gradually dying embers of the fire in the hearth. He was oddly beautiful like this.

The sticky substance was starting to itch as it dried on your hands, so you made to wriggle off his lap. “I’ll go… Clean up,” you said, a bit shyly, mindful of the late hour and how you would need to be up early the next morning. "Goodnight." 

He grabbed your elbow and pulled you down for one last, long, heated kiss before he let you go with a smile.

 

* * *

 

_Knock knock knock._

The sound of the giant knocker echoed up the stairs to the nursery, but you ignored it. Mrs. Arthur knew you were busy with Emmett; she tended to get the door, as she was more likely to be downstairs than you were. It was nearly lunch, so she should probably be in the kitchen.

_Knock knock knock._

Emmett was gently clopping his small wooden horse along the floor, making little burbling noises under his breath. They were probably supposed to be whinnying sounds. He was getting much better control of his lips as of late—

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK._

With a frown, you finally hoisted Emmett up and began to move down the stairs, balancing him carefully as he continued to wriggle and canter his horse along your shoulder. Where could Mrs. Arthur be?

The fourth knock had started when you worked the bolt open, swinging the door inwards. A woman stood on the steps, finely dressed, her hair in an elaborate series of braids with a jaunty hat pinned to the top. Everything about her was decorative, right down to the sumptuous rows of delicate lace on her hem.

“Is Mr. Frye in,” she asked, tone crisp and aristocratic. A far cry from your own broad vowels.

You attempted to retain some semblance of dignity when Emmett abandoned his horse for the new game of pulling at your cap, shoving it over your eyes in the process. “I’m afraid he’s not, Miss. If you leave your card, I could convey—”

“That’s fine, I can wait,” she answered cheerfully. With movements so brisk and confident that you barely had a chance to realise what was happening, she had pushed past you into the hallway, poking her head around the door of the sitting room. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she went in, the whisper of her skirts the only sound as she rounded the corner.

You followed her at a half step, having given up your cap to Emmett’s hands. “I— well, can I get you something to drink, a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely.” She turned and gave you her first smile. It was a pretty thing, wide and open, and it made her whole face light up. “Here,” she added with a bit of a chuckle, reaching out authoritatively, “give him to me for a moment, you can get your cap back.”

Encouraged by her friendly manner and without any time to decline, you found Emmett being lifted from your hands. But when you quickly secured your cap and reached back for him, the woman ignored you, now bouncing Emmett on her hip.

“Miss,” you started hesitantly, “if I may—”

“I’m sure you have other duties to be attending to,” the woman said, now wiggling her fingers at Emmett with a giggle. “I can wait here with him.”

You blinked at her slowly, trying to not be blatantly rude. “I’m not certain if—”

“Come now,” she interrupted you, smile now tinged with a bit of irritation. “The child will be fine.”

“But—”

“After all,” she chirped, leaning forward to peck Emmett on the nose, “if he can’t be left alone with his mother, who _can_ he be left alone with?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our non-British readers, a Chelsea bun is like... A cinnamon bun with currants in it. 
> 
> Victorian underwear! There was SO MUCH OF IT HOLY GOD. The slit at the thighs of the drawers is real, as those of you who have read my other fics will know, because (for the obvious reasons) it makes a pretty regular appearance. [**Here's a primer.**](http://www.tudorlinks.com/treasury/articles/viewvictunder1.html)
> 
> Men wore underpants that look... Well, to my eyes they look pretty similar to modern boxers, actually. Apparently they were usually made of wool? Damn, that would've itched.


	9. Impending Concerns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by all the tea that I will have to drink to stay awake at work tomorrow, because it is now Too Late.
> 
> Which is why there also may be mistakes here and there. I'll be proof reading in the morning. Bed time now!

“She’s what?”

As it turned out, Mrs. Arthur was in the back garden, bending over her rows of turnips. It explained why she hadn’t heard the knock at the front door.

During the course of your employment in the Frye household, you had watched Mrs. Arthur toss out drunks without breaking a sweat, berate burly young men until they were nearly in tears, and clock an intruder on the head with a warming pan. She approached everything with a sense of determination and vigour that you couldn’t help but immensely admire.

Now, though, for the first time, you saw her speechless. Her mouth was even hanging open, dumbfounded by the suggestion that Emmett’s mother was now sitting in their parlour.

Wringing your hands, you tried to bring her back into the present. “I can’t take her tea,” you said pleadingly, “I just… I can’t, Mrs. Arthur. Please.” Horrifyingly, your voice broke on the last word.

In a trice, she was on her feet and dusting the dirt from her apron. “Right. Yes. Come with me.”

Leading you into the kitchen, she prepared a tray with brisk movements. Before leaving, she set a steaming cup of tea in front of you, pointing at the saucer with a stern “Drink!”.

Numbly, you took a sip and listened to her stomp down the hallway.

Within minutes, she was back. “Well, I never,” she muttered, snapping the cutting board onto the counter. “Of all the impertinences.” Slamming some carrots onto the wood, she began to cut with such ferocity that little bits of carrot went flying through the air, one of them bouncing off your shoulder. “To arrive like that after a year of absence and make yourself at home, can you imagine.”

Your stomach felt like it was twisting itself in knots. “Why is she here?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Mrs. Arthur said grimly. “I sent a message with George to fetch Mr. Frye.”

Time seemed to slow to molasses as you both waited. Mrs. Arthur finished with the carrots and moved onto the potatoes with equal vigour, occasionally muttering something like “I have never, in all my years,” or “I do not like her, no, I do not.” When the front door finally opened and slammed shut, Mrs. Arthur craned her head around to the hallway and beckoned at you. “He’s here- now, come, come with me-“

“We can’t join them!” You whispered back, panicked at even the thought.

“I wasn’t suggesting we do, come along, now.”

She practically dragged you by the elbow down the hall, and you were mystified when she opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs. “Mrs. Arthur, what-”  

“In!” She hissed, and you had no choice but to obey.

Once inside, you became even more baffled when she produced two glass cups from her deep apron pockets. She pushed one into your hands and put her own to the wall, pressing her ear against the base, gesturing for you to do the same. “What…” You whispered, beginning to fear that senility was setting in, before imitating her with hesitant motions.

When Mr. Frye’s voice immediately became as audible as if he were standing right beside you, you nearly dropped the glass in surprise.

“—time I checked, you had decided that you were never going to see me, or Emmett, ever again.” He sounded as cold as you’ve ever heard him, words like shards of ice.

“You know that wasn’t my choice.” It was the woman’s voice, now, just as steely. She sounded a little bit more muffled, likely because she was facing away from your direction if she was still sitting on the sofa.

“It felt like your choice when you decided to just give him away without telling me that he even existed.”

“Again, not my choice.” 

“You could have sent a letter.”

“It wasn’t allowed.”

“Oh, bull _shit_ ,” Mr. Frye snapped, and both you and Mrs. Arthur shared a shocked glance. “Like you couldn’t have sent one of your many, many devoted maids to deliver a letter, as if your family is so all-knowing and powerful that you couldn’t have sent a message—”

“It wasn’t that simple,” the woman interrupted, real emotion leaking through in her voice for the first time. “And I was alone—” She took a shuddering breath, and when she collected herself, her tone was clipped and hard again. “I didn’t come here to go over things in the past.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t.”

“I came to tell you that I’m to be married.”

There was a long, long silence, during which you felt like you could barely breathe. Your knees were starting to feel cramped and sore against the wooden floor, but you didn’t dare move an inch. Mrs Arthur was similarly frozen, face screwed up in concentration as she listened.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Frye’s voice said, though his tone conveyed anything but. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“Lord Anthony Ashley-Cooper.”

Mr. Frye laughed, entirely without humour. “So you’ll be Countess Ashley-Cooper. Your family must be thrilled.”

“They’re relieved that I accepted someone—”

“Someone with a pedigree they approve of.”

The woman didn’t argue with him. “I want him to meet Emmett.”

Another silence, this one seemingly even longer. It was finally broken by Mr. Frye’s disbelieving voice. “You have got to be joking.”

“He knows about Emmett. I said that accepting Emmett was one of my conditions for becoming his wife. It’s been agony, Jacob, not having my baby with me.”

“Not having him with… Lavinia, if I hadn’t stepped in— without any word from you, by the way— Emmett would have gone to a foundling home and then god knows where.”

The woman— _Lady Lavinia,_ you corrected yourself— tried to protest. “My parents would have—”

“Your parents want nothing more than to wipe me, and Emmett by extension, off the face of the earth. They tried to bribe me to go to Australia, or have you forgotten?”

There was a snuffling sound, followed by a child’s burbling and a loud yawn. Emmett’s voice broke into the conversation, clearly after he caught sight of Mr. Frye. “Paba,” he said cheerfully, “Paba!”

“Hey, sport,” Mr. Frye murmured, and there was the sound of steps and a brief pause. “Lavinia,” he said, a warning in his tone, until there were more shuffling sounds and a noise that could only be Emmett happily blowing raspberries against Mr. Frye’s neck.

Lady Lavinia’s voice was soft and reproachful. “I’m his mother. His _mother_. I carried him for nine months. You told me you loved me, once. Surely that at least means you owe me one dinner. For myself and my intended.” 

Emmett made some more happy noises, gradually growing loud enough that you nearly missed Jacob’s next words. “… Fine. Dinner. If _Lord_ Anthony Ashley-Cooper can lower himself enough to come to this part of town, you can both come on…” There were more steps, and then the sound of a flipping notebook. “Next Saturday.”

“I’ll cancel any of our previous engagements,” Lady Lavinia said. There was swish of skirts against the rug. “We will be here at six o’clock. Don’t bother with invitations.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Mr. Frye muttered.

You were so engrossed in this exchange that you nearly jumped out of your skin when Mrs. Arthur tugged on your elbow. She was urgently gesturing you up, and with a burst of adrenaline and horror, you realised that the cupboard under the stairs was too small for the door to close with both of you in it. You would be clearly visible if someone went to the front door.

Scrambling as silently as you could, you both rushed for the kitchen, trying to duck out of sight. Throwing yourself around the corner, you pressed your back to the wall, heart pounding a thousand miles a minute as Lady Lavinia opened the front door herself and swept out of the house. Mrs. Arthur went straight for the kitchen counter, resuming chopping potatoes as if she hadn’t left her station at all.

Mr. Frye entered the room moments later, giving you a queer look when he saw you plastered against the wall. “Thank you for sending a message about our guest, Mrs. Arthur. We’re going to be having two people joining us for dinner on Saturday, and don’t spare any expense on the menu. Um, if someone could take Emmett…”

“Of course,” you managed, holding your arms out to accept the boy.

Mr. Frye, much paler than usual, turned on his heel and left the kitchen without another word.

Once he was gone, Mrs. Arthur stilled her hand and both of you shared a long and incredulous look.

Jiggling Emmett on your hip, you tried to still your racing mind. “Wait,” you said, having something of a belated realisation. “How long have you known about being able to listen in that way? Under the stairs, that is. How much have you—”

Mrs. Arthur interrupted you, tipping the potatoes into a pot. “Might need more of those from the cellar. Those Rook boys on guard eat enough for three each.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Mrs. Arthur…”

“Let’s start on the bread, shall we,” she said cheerfully, having apparently gone temporarily deaf. “The dough will need time to rise.”

 

* * *

 

Jacob didn’t make an appearance at dinner. He was present for Emmett’s goodnight kiss right as the clock struck eight, but he immediately disappeared again, not leaving you room to ask him if everything was all right.

As you rocked Emmett’s crib, watching him drift off to sleep, it was hard not to look for his mother’s features. And yet, somehow, it was equally difficult to find them. In almost every way, Emmett seemed to take after his father.

Your involuntary relief at that thought made your stomach squirm with guilt.

Once Emmett was asleep and you were dressed for bed, you crept downstairs in your slippers with your candle held aloft. You could see the flickering light coming from beneath the study door. Keeping your hand gentle, you knocked and held your breath until you were told to come in.

Mr. Frye was slouched in his chair, an open bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk. There was only about a quarter of the liquid remaining in the bottle, though you had no way of knowing how full it had been earlier that day. He had a tumbler in his hand, staring at it like it could provide the answers to the universe.

You ended up standing a bit awkwardly near the door. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but there was something automatic about it. “Long day.”

After a pause, you decided to broach the topic. “She told me that she was… Emmett’s mother.”

“That’s right.” He sighed before seeming to remember who he was talking to. “She was… We…” Setting his glass on the desk, he sighed and put his face in his hands. “It was a short acquaintance, but long enough to have serious consequences.”

“Emmett,” you supplied.

“Emmett.”

Summoning up your courage, you wrapped your shawl tighter around yourself. “Did you not consider marrying her?”

Mr. Frye’s head jerked up, features arranged in a scowl. “I didn’t abandon her, if that’s what you’re asking. Do I seem like that kind of man to you?”

“No, that— I—”

Something in your face made his shoulders relax. “Sorry. It’s a good question. It…” He tipped the tumbler back to his lips and drank the dark liquor all back in one go, as if to steel himself. “I didn’t know. About Emmett,” he said, all in one rush. “I was mad for her, like I’d never been mad for anyone else. And then, one day, she disappeared. Wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t answer my letters. I even tracked her down to the family estate, only to have her mother stop me at the door and tell me her daughter had ‘come to her senses’ and didn’t want to see me. And that she had half a mind to shoot me on the spot if I ever showed my face again.” He laughed, but it was that same hollow laugh from earlier. You immediately hated the sound. “I assumed she had decided that I was beneath her interest. Most people leave, eventually, after all. All the same, I asked a Rook to keep an eye on her, just in case, and… That was how I found out about Emmett.” His voice hardened. “ _After_ he was born. It all made much more sense after that. So I collected him and took him home. He’s been with me ever since.”

To your shame, despite the seriousness of the story that he was telling, your brain was stuck on one phrase. _I was mad for her, like I’d never been mad for anyone else_. It made something mean and horrible curl in your chest, a desire to stomp and yell and scrub away every last memory of her from Mr. Frye’s mind. Shaking yourself, you tried to focus. “Then why has she returned now?”

“God only knows.”

“Do you think… She intends to take Emmett away?”

Mr. Frye poured himself another generous glass of whiskey, face blank with exhaustion. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

Your heartbeat was unnaturally loud in your ears. “Are you going to allow that?”

“I don’t know if I have a choice.”

“What— of course you have a choice,” you blurted out, indignant. “You’re his father, you’ve raised him since he was born! You love him! He loves you!” _I love you_ , you added silently, throat catching on the words.

Looking up, Mr. Frye stared at you like he was seeing you properly for the first time since you had cone into the room. Slowly, his face cracked into the only smile that you had seen from him all day, like a ray of sunshine in the room. “My little Turtle, so angry on my behalf. I should send you in to fight the cavalry for me. I’m sorry for being so morose. Come here.”

You stepped towards him and he tugged you onto his lap, sighing as he rested his head against your shoulder. His stubble scraped gently against your neck, tickling your skin. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you breathed him in, trying to smell his familiar scent underneath all the alcohol. “He needs you,” you whispered. _I need you_. “You’re his family and it would be wrong for him to be parted from you, especially to go to a household where other children will eventually arrive.”

“I… Hadn’t thought of that,” Mr. Frye said, hands now absently stroking your back. “I suppose they will, won’t they?”

“He would always be the lesser sibling,” you insisted. “The bastard child amongst the legitimate. He needs attention and love, and he is so easily stressed. Can’t you see how cruel it would be?”

Mr. Frye heaved a deep sigh and drew his grip tighter until you were almost being crushed into his hug. You both stayed like that, pressed together, listening to the grandfather clock _tick tock tick_ loudly in the hallway, the rest of the house slumbering peacefully. “Ah, sweet girl,” he eventually mumbled, “what would I do without you?”

“I’m right here,” you promised, wriggling out of his grip enough to cup his jaw in your hands. “I promise, Mr. Frye, I’ll be right here with you through this.”

His smile slowly grew again, genuine and warm, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Jacob,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I think it’s really past time that you call me Jacob.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reader refers to Lavinia as “Lady Lavinia” because she instinctively resorts to title for the upper classes. She would call her by her proper last name, but she doesn’t know what it is. I tried to pick a popular Victorian name that would be very rare today, by the way, because I thought it would be a shock to be reading a reader-insert and discover that you share a name with the Other Woman, lol. 
> 
> Speaking of names, it’s probably a tiny bit early for the reader to be referring to Jacob by his first name by proper middle-class standards. Her mother would be appalled. I don’t think these two lovebirds care. 
> 
> Becoming pregnant outside of wedlock was catastrophic for women in the Victorian era. A bit of googling to try and get some context mostly [**brought up stories about**](https://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/articles/foundlings-orphans-and-unmarried-mothers) [**poor single mothers**](https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/sep/19/victorian-women-forced-to-give-up-their-babies-new-exhibition). (As a warning, please note that some of stories are quite distressing.) The deeply misogynistic cultural narrative did not allow for “fallen men,” only “fallen women”. 
> 
> Lavinia’s context— as I have dreamed it up— is quite different from the experiences of women who are also struggling with marginalisation and poverty. She comes from a wealthy and titled family. Faced with her pregnancy, her family did what I imagine many wealthy families did in secret to prevent scandal (and, no doubt, sometimes out of genuine affection and fear for their daughters): hid her from public view, had the baby privately, and then planned to give it away. 
> 
> Her decision to tell her fiancée that she has already had a secret child is extremely unusual but important to the way that I imagined her. Hopefully that will seem more understandable when we meet him in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy. Happy authors write faster. ( ᐛ )و


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